


(If I Didn't Know Better) I'd Say This Feels Pretty Good

by runboyrun



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Authoritarian Government, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Trauma, Class Differences, Class Systems, Dystopia, Eventual Smut, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sentinel/Guide, Slow Burn, boundary violation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-24 00:07:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 59,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14343825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runboyrun/pseuds/runboyrun
Summary: Stan had always hoped he could take solace in his conventionality. He wasn’t particularly tall or short, heavy or thin, brilliant or idiotic. Stanley Uris toed the line of average like an acrobat. In fact, the only remarkable thing about him was just how unremarkable he was.Richie had always been a little too sharp, a little too bright. He had an energy he never quite learned to contain and sensitivity he couldn't begin to control. He was cornered into a spotlight of scrutiny. With each step into greater success he stumbled further into his own demise.





	1. ease

**Author's Note:**

> please mind the tags, this is going to be a darker storyline than what i've written before.
> 
> thank you to hikash0 and breathplayed for supporting this mess.

Stan had always hoped he could take solace in his conventionality. He wasn’t particularly tall or short, heavy or thin, brilliant or idiotic. Stanley Uris toed the line of average like an acrobat. In fact, the only remarkable thing about him was just how  _unremarkable_ he was. He blended into his surroundings like a true wallflower; camouflaged from the spotlight.

It was hard to stick to sidelines in a town as small as Derry, but Stan did it. Being bullied for his yarmulke and curls since children could learn to hone their hostility taught him just how valuable being unnoticed could be.

He wasn’t  _alone_ though, he had Bill. Big Bill, Stan would call him when he was sure the boy couldn’t hear. He wasn’t unremarkable - Bill stood as tall as the sky, even as a child. At least, he stood over Stan.

Bill was going to be a Sentinel. Everyone in town said so - his father was one. “Good genes!” They always said. Stan didn’t fully understand what that meant, not at six. But, from what he’d heard his mama saying over tea, Bill would be strong and fast and ‘sharper’ than the other kids.

Stan had smiled when he’d heard it. Bill sounded like a superhero.

Bill’s dad didn’t seem like much of one.

He was always home. Every time Stan tip toed his way through the front door he could see the hazy gray eyes of Mr. Denbrough staring wide at him from his lazy chair. The whole house was like that. Instead of ‘don’t touch that, Stanley’ like when he was in Temple it was more ‘don’t even  _breathe,_ Stanley’. They never played inside - Bill always took to the streets of Derry like a bat out of Hell when he could.

They only ever came back to Bill’s house to eat or play with Georgie in the yard, who was getting better at walking now. Bill called it ‘playing ghosts’ cause they couldn’t make any noise at all. Or his dad would come.

Stan didn’t think a kid should have to be a ghost in his own house. But, he wasn’t a grown up. And Bill’s dad was scary.

He always knew when they were listening to music they shouldn’t - even when Bill turned it down real low. And he didn’t help put together Georgie’s tricycle last year. He made Bill do it by himself while he just sat in the dark.

His dad couldn’t do  _anything_ without going back inside - that didn’t sound like a Sentinel.

Stan had said as much to Bill one day, long before he learned to trust caution over feeling, muttering as quiet as he could with a mouth full of peanut butter sandwich.

The newspaper that slapped down next to his hand startled a squeak out of him. Stan looked up from beneath his curls at a very angry Mr. Denbrough. He’d never even  _seen_ him angry before - he always sat with the same tapes playing and sipping scotch in the dark. His face hardly ever moved. 

“A  _weak_ Sentinel is still a Sentinel, Stanley.” The words were like venom at the child, and Stan felt his eyes water despite himself. Bill just looked down.

Mr. Denbrough stood a long moment, staring down at Stan as the boy’s lip trembled. When he finally left the room Bill stood to grab Stan’s hand the other halves of their sandwiches before taking off out of the house.

Their legs didn’t stop until they’d reached the park. Bill didn’t like to talk about anything important until he was sure his dad wouldn’t hear. He plopped onto a bench and waited for Stan to check for dew or dirt before he sat next to him.

“He d-d-doe-do,” Bill paused with an angry huff. Stan didn’t move, didn’t rush him. “He doesn’t have a g-g-guide.” Bill finally said, looking to Stan as if Stan had any idea what that meant.

“What?”

“A guide,” Bill said, “They help you s-stay calm, make you b-b-better. D-Dad says it a lot.”

“Why doesn’t he just get one?” Stan asked. There was a tour guide for the mountains a few hours north, and another near the sea if he wanted that one instead. There was even a guidance counselor at school.

“They’re p-people,” Bill said, “They come to live w-w-with you, you g-get married.”

“But your dad is married to your mom. He loves her?” He didn’t mean for it to slip out like a question, but… they did, right?

“Sometimes,” Bill said, voice as soft as if he were pretending to a ghost in his home. “B-But not really.”

“Oh.”

A look of confidence in something ingrained slid across Bill’s face. “You d-don’t love guides. Dad said so. They’re… helpers. They help.”

Stan didn’t think he liked the sound of that. Guides were  _people,_ Bill said as much.

“Your dad scares me sometimes.” Stan whispered.

A wide smile spread across Bill’s cheeks, “I’m not gonna b-be like him.” He swore, face glowing in the midday sun. “I’m never gonna scare y-you. I’ll be a Sen -”

“A superhero.” Stan answered before he could think better of it. Bill looked like a superhero. Golden skin and fluttering hair and sparkling eyes.

Stan felt his cheeks pink as Bill blinked wide at him before grinning bigger than before.

“Yeah, a superhero.”

Bill handed him his sandwich and talked a mile a minute as they ate, undeterred by his stutter now that he had the freedom to speak everything he’d bottled up in his home.

Stan would follow him to the ends of the Earth.

It felt a little dramatic, looking back. A boy that was barely even a child swearing unending devotion over peanut butter sandwiches.

He’d meant it though. He’d meant it with his soul.

He never wavered, even as the world became a little darker with each day. In fact, he stood closer to Bill - his liferaft in this suddenly very clearly set system. The chaos of childhood was tapering off; no more days of just children screaming and running. No more judging by gut rather than rules.

Fresh textbooks printed each year taught about the _classifications_ that had enchanted Stan only years before. They kept it light, but firm. Sentinels were strong, Leveled were normal, guides were… helpers.

Stan had thought it a typo when his workbooks didn’t capitalize ‘guide’ like the other two. It wasn’t. He’d been corrected by a bright smile from his first grade teacher; Ms. Collins.

“Guides are different, Stanley.” She said, nodding as she went, “Sentinels protect us and we need them. But, Sentinels use guides to feel better, okay?”

Ms. Collins began to write on the chalkboard, every child looking to her with rapt attention on the topic their parents always shied from.

“Guides are special and are here to help the Sentinels. Every Sentinel has a guide. If any of you are lucky enough to _be_ a guide, you tell the police or a doctor.”

Why wouldn’t Stan tell his mama?

“They’ll take you to meet your new Sentinel and you get to help keep the world safe!” She crowed, delighted with the very idea of it. Her pink lipstick was smeared on her white white teeth, Stan’s eye twitched. “Guides can _ease_ a Sentinel because they have a very tough job, it’s a guide’s duty to help them. Understand, Stanley?”

“That sounds scary,” Stan finally said after a heavy silence. All the kids were looking at him. He didn’t like to be looked at. “What if the guide doesn’t wanna go, Ms. Collins?”

Her smile suddenly looked tighter, her brow furrowed like Stan had asked something insane. 

“That’s not up to them, dear.” She cleared her throat and addressed the class once more, “If you ever see a guide; you  _always_  tell the police or a doctor. Alright, kids?”

“Yes, Ms. Collins.” The children around Stan answered dutifully. Stan couldn’t speak. His tongue felt lodged in this throat. He hardly felt like he could breathe from the dark look that had glanced across his friendly teacher’s face. He watched her trot to the list of the class' names; he didn't feel comfortable looking away from her.

“Now, since Stanley was so _smart_  to ask,” She began, placing a gold sticker by his name with a little wink he normally preened at, “Let’s talk about signs of guides. First…”

Stan tried not to hear her. Letting his shoulder curl around himself at Bill’s curious gaze.

But, despite that day, the years went on and Bill kept Stan beside him like glue, tugging him through the woods to look at birds when Bill was patient enough and searching for the quarry edge when Stan was brave enough.

The day they found it felt like a revelation, like the entire world had opened beneath them for the taking. Bill was half undressed before Stan insisted they check the water first - what if there was no way back up?

It’d been the right call. The water, though beautiful, had aggressively shallow banks of sharp rock mere feet beneath the surface. The jump was deadly if they didn’t position themselves just right.

But Bill, ever determined, mapped out the rocks and divots until he knew every spot he could leap into with the freedom his bones ached for. Stan, after a few panicked breaths and a lot of tears, lept in with him. White knuckling his hand as the plummeted down into the stagnant water below.

Bill screamed every time, a battle cry into the depths. Stan just shut his eyes and waited for impact - praying he didn’t hit jagged rocks even with Bill’s confident navigation of the terrain below.

That tactic may have been why he never saw it coming.

They’d been twelve, the cusp of adolescence on the horizon as Bill shot up like a tree and Stan pretended his unruly curls counted for height. Bill had slammed into his room, shirt and denim shorts dirty and askew as a manic smile stretched across his lips. The blue of his eyes kept sinking beneath fluctuating pupils - like he couldn’t decide how bright the room was. Stan didn’t have a single light on, the only shine was the faint glow of the moon across Bill’s flushed cheeks. His fingers kept twitching, unable to settle between a fist and stretching to their limits. 

He was scaring Stan, just a little bit.

“It’s happening,” Bill said, voice cracking and hardly audible, “It’s happening, it’s happening.”

“What is?” Stan asked, but Bill’s wince made him try again in the softest whisper he could manage. “What, Bill?”

“I’m - shit - c’mon,” Bill waved for Stan to follow, already taking off out of the room. Stan sat frozen for a moment, unwilling to face the this… he didn’t know who that was. It didn’t feel like Big Bill.

But the idea of that face coming back into his room with those eyes on him was worse than the idea of following behind it.

Stan toed on his shoes and took off after Bill.

He felt lucky, despite how unsettling all this felt, that Bill let him have time to grab his bike. Stan could barely peddle beside Bill on Silver before, but Bill was flying down the street like he was racing to beat the devil. It was only muscle memory that made them show up to the edge of the quarry unscathed.

Stan had come here in the night with Bill before. It was silent, the water hardly moved, the wind never seemed to catch the trees. They could’ve been in space - the stars above had always made it seem so.

But Bill wasn’t calm, wasn’t laying on his back to stare at the stars with his arm a steady warmth against Stan’s own - he was pacing. There wasn’t enough light in the rural Maine sky to show the edge of the quarry - the black water’s seam along the rocky bank was indistinguishable.

“Bill,” Stan finally began, voice the only sound besides Bill’s frantic steps. “What’s wrong?”

“Can’t you hear it?” Bill asked.

“I just - I only hear you.”

Stan didn’t like this. Didn’t like this tension in Bill that looked ready to explode. Stan wanted to reach for him, rub his temples like his mama would do when his head hurt. There was just - something was wrong.

“It’s so  _loud_ -” Bill choked, hands cupped over his ears as his lip trembled. “Dad snoring and mom’s slamming her teacup like she’s trying to break it and the sheets are like sandpaper in my bed and I -” He hiccuped, curling in on himself as he shook. “It hurts.”

Stan stepped towards Bill, trying to keep his feet light as he approached. Stan wanted to help him -  _needed_ to help him. It was like a string was pulling from his chest to Bill’s own. A humming in his bones to go to him, to help him, to  _ease_ him -

Oh God.

The moment Stan’s fingertips brushed Bill’s flushed cheek it was as if the strings had been cut. Bill sank into him, legs crumbling beneath him as his nose jammed into Stan’s collarbone. The wash through Stan nearly left him stumbling as well. The… God, Stan didn’t have a word for it. The sense of fulfillment at helping Bill - at holding Bill and  _fixing_ Bill. How the tension in his face eased away, how he seemed like he could breathe again.

It took Stan too long to realize why. For the chill to settle back into his bones; he’d - he’d eased Bill. Bill was a Sentinel and Stan had calmed him. Stan couldn’t do that on his own; that was impossible, only a - he couldn’t. A Center could help Bill. Lock him in a room with white noise and darkness and those cotton sheets and -

But, he hadn’t needed them. He’d just needed Stan.

Stan was a guide.

The terror shot through Stan, filling every inch of his being with  _flightflightflight_. Stan couldn’t be a guide. He silenced that hum in his bones, shoved away this - this ease in him.

Bill jerked away from him, it was as if he’d been  _shot._ His face twisted back up into pain with a high keen as the touch from Stan dissipated.

Stan watched Bill’s arms reach out, trembling like a lost child. Begging to be held again. Stan wrapped his arms around himself instead; shaking as he fought the pull in him to help Bill.

“W-What, Stan,” Each step forward from Bill was countered with a step back from Stan. “You’re - y-you’re -”

“No,” Stan cut him off, desperation building in his tone as Bill began to fall deeper into his own cacophony of senses. “I’m - you’re a Sentinel, Bill. You’re just sinking. It’s okay, you just need to see a Center.”

With each word Bill seemed to calm, the fear in his eyes diluting into something softer.

“S-s-s-s”

“Bill, you’ll be okay. There’s one in Bangor. You’ll be okay, I promise,” Hands brushed his forearms, Stan shot back. When did Bill get so close?  _How_ did he -

Stan was easing him. Even without touch, Stan was soothing him down. Oh God, oh God -

If Bill had had any uncertainty about Stan, it was gone now. His quaking fingers couldn’t find purchase on Stan’s pajamas as Stan backpedalled away.

“B-B-but we’re compatible,” Bill said, words flying out of his mouth - Stan could hardly follow as he tried to back away. “You can h-help me and I can p-p-protect you and -”

“We’re not,” Stan swore, tears building in his eyes, “We’re  _not_ \- Bill, please - I’m not a guide.”

They’d take him away. Bill’s delight wouldn’t last - Stan couldn’t stay with him. Bill was a loser with a stutter as much as Stan thought otherwise. He was a child. There were grown ups - adults - who needed guides and Stan was… Stronger people, older people, would take Stan away to somewhere he could help.  _Help_ \- like he was an object for use. They’d treat him like one; he probably wouldn’t get to finish middle school.

Oh God, oh  _God._

“Bill, please,” He begged, but Bill’s hands locked on his wrists. He tugged him in - God, he was so much bigger than Stan. So much stronger. How did Stan not realize?

“I need you,” Bill said, tears building in his pained eyes. “I c-c-can’t, it’s so loud, everything is so _m-much._ You have to help me, they’ll understand, I p-p-promise.”

“You can’t,” Stan shook, Bill’s grip forming bruises on his bird like bones, “They won’t - Bill, let go. You’re hurting me,  _please_ \- ”

Bill’s hands shot away as if he’d burned him. Stan pulled his own shaking hands to his chest - fingers knotting into his sweatshirt as the cold sweat prickled his neck.

“You can’t make me,” Stan begged, voice thick with tears. “Please, Bill. I can’t - don’t let them take me.”

Bill looked horrified with himself as he stared at Stan. He looked like the little boy who got nervous around pretty girls. The boy who hated the cold but braved it to teach Georgie to skate. The boy who carried Stan over mud and taught him the safe spots to jump into the lake below.

But his gaze began to distort. A shine building in his eyes that shook Stan to his core. Bill began to twitch again; overwhelmed with sights and sounds and smells that Stan couldn’t begin to process. Stan’s sneakers scrapped the soft soil dusted over the rock as he backed away.

“Stan,” Bill muttered, voice cracking and terrified - face contorting into almost agony. “S-Stan help me,  _helpmeStan_ \- p-p-p-please,”

Bill ran at him suddenly, desperate for the *ease* that Stan didn’t know he’d had and didn’t fucking want.

He hadn’t meant to. Bill was his friend - his brother.

His superhero.

But, in that moment, Stan didn’t see Big Bill Denbrough. He didn’t see Georgie’s big Brother or the scrappy brat who would take a punch before the bullies could get near Stan.

He saw a monster. He saw a Sentinel.

 _“No!”_ Stan shrieked as Bill came upon him, folded arms shooting out to keep him away. Stan twisted as he gripped Bill’s hoodie, forcing Bill’s balance from him as he shoved him back with as much strength as he could muster.

Stan didn’t have strength like Bill. But, a guide’s empathy could punch a Sentinel’s soul.

Stan also didn’t have eyesight like Bill. Stan couldn’t see the edge of the cliff.

Bill stumbled once, twice, before he tipped.

Stan stood, frozen in the kicked up dirt that flew around his shins. Bill’s eyes lifted into a moment of clarity, of understanding, before he disappeared.

Bill screamed. Stan shut his eyes.

The scream cut off at the gunshot impact of the water.


	2. facilitat

The poster was crooked. Garish orange with pearly white letters punched across it glowed from within The Falcon’s shadowbox frame. The glossy paper wasn’t wide enough to fill the display and, despite Mike’s best efforts, sat askew in the luster of the dusty bulb lights.

The girl on the poster was frail, timid and underfed. Her face nearly filled the entire picture. But her cheeks were rosy with adoration and her smile perfectly demure as she looked up. She was on her knees like prayer - never equal to the Sentinel who ‘took care of her’. Two big muscular hands held her face as she looked up. The hands didn’t cradle like a lover, or ever a friend, but gripped. She was where she belonged. Where she _deserved_ to be.

 _Help guides come home!  
_ _REPORT ROGUES_

Stan’s fingers twitched on the broom he was knuckling, forcing a brow up as Mike walked over. _Indifferent, indifferent_ , he chanted - _never let them see you sweat_. He slid his eyes to his manager, not even two months older than himself in a button up he always wore with cuffed sleeves and bright ties, and winced as Mike laughed.

“You look more ready to die than usual.” Mike joked.

“This place really brings out the joy in me,” Stan quipped, tone dry and eyes flat. He chanced a look at the poster again, unable to avoid it - they’d really made sure it was a beacon. Mike’s eyes followed, a grimace forming on his face as well. “Do we need to have it right _there_?” Stan chanced.

“Direct orders,” Mike said with a sigh. He didn’t need to say who - _direct orders_ only came from one place.

“Are you sure they couldn’t find a more in-your-face spot?” Stan joked easily.

“Any more and they’d tape it to our shirts,” Mike laughed again. He was always easy going, but Stan could still see the tension in his jaw. “They came in yesterday. Picked out right where we needed to keep it to help the community.”

Sentinels had been here.

“Really?” Stan said, voice dipping as if the lobby weren’t deserted. All of their fourteen patrons were already a half hour into _Casablanca_.  

“Yeah, it was a mess. They’d barely given me notice, just a call that the manager needed to be available to ‘discuss image representation’ or something.” Mike said, “They didn’t stay long; that mess yesterday was a shit show.”

Stan had tripped yesterday. The ‘booze fridge’ needed to be restocked with bottles of wine and bottom shelf liquor. But the pushcart for concessions was wobbly; Stan took one turn too sharp and slammed the edge of the counter. Stan was knocked on his ass - the bottles had exploded across the floor. Stan had cut his palm open on a rosé while Mike ran over. He’d insisted Stan go home, even though the cut was shallow - _no bleeding on ticket stubs, Stan!_  

Stan’s eyes slid back to Mike, “Sorry about that.”

“It’s alright,” Mike winked, “I only keep you around cause you’re sweet on the kids anyway.” 

Stan smiled at that, soft and a little crooked. Crooked like the girl in the poster. He looked to it again, feeling each vertebrae in his spine lock up once more.

“Tell you what,” Mike said, patting Stan once before walking away. He never touched for more than a moment, knew Stan was hesitant about contact. “Go man concessions for me. _Peter Pan_ is at 11:00, got a lot of kids for you to delight.”

Stan nodded at Mike’s retreating back before putting the broom away and sitting at the stool behind the snack bar.

He’d known about the Sentinels. Stan listened to every call that didn’t pass through box office first - anyone who had a direct line to whoever was in charge. He was supposed to be getting the wine anyway; he’d just grabbed a few extra bottles to overbalance the cart.

The injury had to be self inflicted, Stan wasn’t lucky enough to accidentally land on a shard on his plummet down. He hated pain, but bit his lip and cut before Mike rounded the corner. It barely bled at all - Stan’s pain threshold wasn’t much better than a toddler - but Mike insisted he go home. Most employers would’ve smacked a bandaid and called it a day. Stan knew Mike wouldn’t. Mike was a nice boss; a nice _man_. 

Sometimes Stan felt bad about manipulating him.

‘A lot of kids’, as always, ended up being close to forty. Mainly toddlers clinging to their parents’ coats as they ordered a diet coke with tired eyes. The theater never filled out except for Cult Clash - and that was once a month. Stan didn’t work those shifts.

He liked the daytime, the quiet, the lack of people to keep track of around him. Sentinels didn’t like movies - at least, not the theaters. Surround sound, giant bright screen in a dark room, the smells? No chance. The chains had adapted, special Sentinel Screenings were held to accommodate those of ‘greater standards’.

They never said a Sentinel _needed_ anything. They just had standards.

The Falcon didn’t meet those standards. Stan could hear the movies from the lobby, nothing close to Sentinel Standard was being met. The owner hid under historical status and penny pinching; the upgrades were too costly to change the original foundations of this original cinematic experience.

It was a dingy sort of place; cult and classic movies at a discount. Too overwhelming for a Sentinel and shifts too early for almost everyone else. Perfect.

The kids were sweet, though; a sea of toddlers until winter break. Stan was patient with them, letting the parents have a moment of solace while he responded to their babbling. He felt restless as the line trickled into an empty lobby once more. Stan didn’t talk to people much, toddlers were wonderful listeners; they didn’t have the vocabulary to criticize yet.

The lull of customers was broken by a sudden slapping against the rounded counter edge. Stan looked up from his sweeping of stray popcorn to see the tips of small fingers as they pat against the counter. Stan leaned to look through the display case; it was a boy in a bright yellow dinosaur hoodie - little spikes and all.

The boy couldn’t have been older than three, his legs wobbled as he reached for the edge of the counter. Stan couldn’t stop the giggle in his throat at the soft little hands scrabbling across the marble.

“Hello!” The boy chirped, “Hello!”

Stan took mercy and bent over the counter enough to see the kid’s face.

“Hi there.”

“May I,” The boy began before pausing. He reached up again, holding Stan’s perched hand between his own. “May I please have skittle?” The kid had a lisp. Stan might die.

“Skittles?” Stan clarified with a smile.

“Skittle, please!” The boy agreed.

He said please… twice. God.

“Well,” Stan began, he can’t just give him candy without permission. “I’m Stan. What’s your name?”

“Georgie!”

Stan froze, “What?”

“I’m Georgie,” The child said, huge smile stretched wide. “Where’s Bill, Stanley?”

Stan couldn’t breathe, this - this kid couldn’t - no _nono_  

“James!” Called a deep voice. Stan whipped his head up, blinking rapidly, to see a young man jogging over to the counter.

“James?” Stan whispered.

“Me!” Yelled Geor - _James_ , his name was James, “Can I have skittle, please?” 

“Sorry about that,” The adult offered, lifting James up onto his hip. “He ran off. Did you bother this nice man?” He asked, bopping the boy on the nose with a wink to Stan.

“Nooo,” James whined. 

“He wasn’t,” Stan promised, “He’s really sweet. Just didn’t want to offer anything without his dad’s permission.”

“Uncle, actually.” He answered easily, smile charming enough to ease the knot in Stan’s chest. “Skittles it is, I guess.”

Stan turned away from the pair, “Anything else? Popcorn? Soda?”

“Nah - hey, no. Can’t go spoiling you.” The responding whine tugged a smile out of Stan. “Gonna have to report you; only a guide whines this much!”

The smile dropped. Stan didn’t let himself take a moment before turning.

“So just the Skittles?”

The man just shook his head with a charismatic smile before putting the boy down to get his wallet. James tugged on his jacket, tears building in his eyes as he reached up with his fingers stretched. 

“Up, please!” He asked, voice already wet.

The man didn’t look to him, instead swiping his card and rolling his eyes to Stan. Stan didn’t respond.

“What did I say?” He asked, keeping his voice light, “Are you gonna be a guide or are you gonna be a big boy?”

James sniffled, but didn’t say anything else. His fingers found purchase on his hood instead, tugging at the fleece spikes as hiccuping sobs bubbled in his throat.

The man walked off to the theatre with a wink to Stan and a, “C’mon, bud.” To James.

Stan looked at his retreating back and James’ wobbling lip before snagging a second box of Skittles. He leaned over the counter until he could reach the big pouch on the hoodie and slid the second box in - he placed the other in James’ hands. The boy looked at him with teary wonderment. Stan put a finger to his lips with a smile.

James did the same and took off after his uncle. Stan nodded to himself, pulling out his wallet to pay for the second box. Fuck that guy.

The rest of the shift dragged on as it always would. The only highlight was seeing James toddling out after his uncle, hands jammed in his pocket around his secret prize. He smiled at Stan, waving wildly as he went. Stan waved back.

Mike was finishing up a call in the office when Stan was grabbing his jacket. He tried to avoid looking at him, the call was just a woman asking about the next Cult Clash; no reason to stay and listen.

“Stan,” Mike called just as Stan was reaching the door, “You doing anything tonight?”

Stan’s fingers drummed across the handle, “Just gonna grab dinner.”

“Would you want to join me and a friend for drinks?” Mike asked, hopeful smile that made Stan’s chest ache, “It’s just us, some beers - well, he likes whiskey a little too much -  but it’ll be fun. Nothing crazy, we’d have you home by ten. Walk you to your door and everything.”

Stan laughed at that, keeping his eyes down as he fidgeted, “Sorry, Mike. I - not tonight. My girlfriend’s got some Italian food calling my name, y’know?”

Mike didn’t let his face drop, but Stan could see how his shoulders did. “It’s okay. Raincheck?”

“Sure thing.”

“I’m almost always free,” Mike promised as he walked out the front doors with Stan, “If you ever want a friend, I’m here.”

“Gonna have to speak to HR about this. Mike, are you trying to flirt?” Stan joked just to let Mike rest a little easier. “I promise I’m good, can’t hog you all to myself - I already see you forty hours a week.” 

Mike nodded, “Can I at least give you a ride home?”

“I need to get some groceries still,” Stan deflected, “Onions and garlic or something; she didn’t have time and I don’t want to put you out.”

“Alright, alright,” Mike agreed, hands up in surrender, “Enjoy your night.”

“You too.”

Stan walked home slowly, his steps measured and careful. He kept his head up, eyes straight ahead. Guides walked with their heads lowered, guides were afraid of being caught.

Stan was not a guide.

Stan had taken off from Derry with a ghost on his tail and heart crushed by stone. If he had been unremarkable before, he was _invisible_ now. He wasn’t going to be a slave. He wasn’t going to be forced into life as a second class citizen because of something he didn’t ask for.

The city was the best place for him; nowhere better to hide than plain sight. Sentinels didn’t live in cities, especially unbonded ones; the effects on the senses wasn’t worth it. There was a Center, one of the biggest - easily the biggest in California, but Stan didn’t allow himself to think about it. The looming concrete tower that had entire floors without windows. It blocked out the sun in some spots - penetrating the LA skyline.

By the time Stan shouldered open his door the sun was beginning to set. He shut the door and did up the one, two, three locks along the chipped wood. He removed his jacket as he wandered to his kitchenette.

“I’m home,” Stan called, crouching at the mini fridge, staring at the barbecue sauce, carrots, and water jug before opening freezer. 

“I was promised Italian,” Stan sang softly, a small whistle responding, “And Italian I shall have.”

The whistle in response drew a smile to his face as he placed the frozen personal lasagna into the microwave.

“Come on, dear,” He said, watching the plastic tray spin, “I thought you would’ve missed me, Piper.”

Stan turned to the cage in the corner of the room where his baby mourning dove cooed. He held up a hand with a trill and she flapped her wings, but did not take off.

“Nervous?” Stan asked, rising to cross the room and hold a hand out to her, “That’s okay.”

The dove trotted up his arm until nipping and tugging at the curls around his ears. He walked back to the microwave as it dinged. Grabbing his only fork, Stan carried the edge of the meal tray to his table. Sitting in his folding chair with Piper cooing in his ear - Stan turned on the news.

“Another rogue was saved today by police officers in Glendale. Their new life with a fresh start will begin as soon as they arrive to the Center.”

The footage was so blurred out that Stan wondered why they bothered to use it at all. Then again, a rogue with no face made it seem like it could be anyone around you. Anyone could be an enemy of the state. 

They looked male, from what Stan could see. Running for his life from police with tasers and rubber pellets. They’d taken him down eventually, who knows how brutally, but the footage always cut away to when they led them ‘calmly to their new homes.’

“The officers collecting the rogue informed us that they were detaining children illegally - but the children have seen been returned to their legal parent.”

A father, then; guides had no legal ground to be parents. No legal claim over their children once they were found out. Those kids would be watched like hawks now - he’d doomed them.

Stan had heard of people making it years without being caught, having jobs and families and just… being alive. Stan thought about that sometimes. Meeting someone, going on dates, maybe getting married… a kid.

He didn’t like to think too long about it. When - _if,_ not when - he did get caught it’d just be worse. All of the love and security he’d built would be torn away as he disappeared into a van. He’d never see them again. Stanley Uris would cease to be anything but a guide.

He watched the man with no face be placed in the white van with blinded windows. The footage looked like this morning, if the sun was any indication; he’d be at the Center by now.

Piper cooed on his shoulder, as if she could sense the bile rising in his throat. Stan stroked her crown as he turned the tv off.

“You’re right, Pipes, you’re more interesting anyway.”

Lasagna abandoned, Stan lay on his cot on the floor. Piper hopped and tittered on his chest as he laughed.

“Tell me about your day.”

The bird chirped and shook her wings.

They used to say guides and Sentinels had spirit animals, that everyone could see them; could see the kind of person they were from the moment their empathy showed like a heart on their sleeve. Talk like that stopped around the time the guides stopped being born. His grandma once said it was because all the love had died, that the souls of guides hid away and their true selves didn’t show anymore. But that might have been the dementia.

Stan liked to think Piper would’ve been his. A little mourning dove. She was all he needed.

A siren wailed past his window and her feathers ruffled as he tensed beneath her. Stan did not begin to breath again until the lights disappeared and his lungs burned.

He stroked along her feathers until they laid flat once more. “We’re okay,” He promised, “It’s okay.”

It wasn’t him. Not today.

 

\-----

 

Stan barely dragged himself though his walk to work the next morning. The sirens the night before had not died away for hours; and the distant wailing cries took even longer. By the time sleep felt near his alarm had already begun to ring. Piper tugged at a ringlet as he kissed her goodbye before grabbing his coat.

The Falcon was as mildly dusty as he’d left it and with a quick nod to Mike he set about opening a register.

Ten in the morning was too early to start screening movies. No one had come in, maybe Stan could sneak a nap in the office before the 11:30 Peter Pan. His eyes landed on the poster again. The girl’s demure face began to blur into nothing, her features distorting until she became an empty slate. 

Stan felt sick again, a tightness in his chest, like his ribs were trying to part to make way for his guts to fall out.

“‘Scuse me?” A voice murmured, barely above a whisper.

Stan, dropping his gaze from the faceless guide, nodded in acknowledgment, “Yes, how can I help you?”

“Could I get m&m’s and an icee?” 

Stan poured a large and charged a small as he filled the cup. 

“All we have is blue,” Stan said, “Hope that’s okay.”

“Best flavors are colors.” The man agreed. Stan snorted as he capped the treat.

The pain in his core kept building as he grabbed the candy. Shit, maybe he had an ulcer. It was sharp - he would’ve puked up the lasagna by now. His _bones_ even ached as he bent to the shelf. Shit.

“$5.25, please.” Stan said, finally looking up to get the cash handed to him.

The boy in front of him was shaking, twitching and curling in on himself as he held out a shivering hand with two five dollar bills. God, Stan didn’t have the energy to deal with a tweaker.

“Wait,” The boy suddenly shouted, voice cracking at the end, “I have a quarter.” The glasses perched on his nose nearly fell off and he ducked his head to search his pockets.

Stan nearly jumped out of his skin at the booming echo through the empty halls. He took the offered five and held out a palm for the change. 

Good God, this guy just needed to calm _down._  

The man in front of him locked up suddenly, then collapsed into himself as if his strings had been cut. The shaking stopped nearly all together, and his hand just fell into Stan’s own, quarter pressed between them.

Stan felt it then, the pain in his ribs eased as the man in front of him settled. Stan felt his eyes go as wide as the magnified ones in front of him. He looked into the face before him - spattered with freckles across nearly translucent skin slack with… ease.

Oh God.

He was a Sentinel.


	3. maolú

There was no air in Stan’s lungs. Frozen on an exhale, clenching in upon themselves as he stared into dilated pupils.  

Just him and this - this _Sentinel_ who looked a hundred pounds soaking wet despite his towering height. A vacuum sealed around them between their brushing palms.

“Wha?” The boy mumbled, scrim lifting from his eyes lazily as he tried to blink behind his coke bottle lenses. He was still sinking, if only just. Worry was beginning to seep into his irises, a pull at Stan’s chest for comfort, for help, just like before. Just like with -

Stan gripped the boy’s palm firmly - acting off of instinct he was never taught. Pushing towards him as he tried to keep things under control. Fingers squeezing tight enough to stop both of their trembling. The boy sunk further forward, his fringe brushing across Stan’s brow. Stan could do this. Stan could get out of this.

“That’s it,” Stan mumbled, voice barely brushing past his own lips, smaller than a whisper, “What’s your name?”

“Richie,” He answered easily. 

“Full name,” Stan corrected, keeping his voice the same. He needed to know how to find him. How to hide from him.

“Richard Tozier,” Complete vulnerability. Stan could tell him to do anything and he would. Richie’s brow tightened for a moment before Stan stroked a thumb across his bony knuckles.

“Okay, Richie,” Stan said, “You’ve got a movie to catch, right?"

“I…” He was practically dangling off the counter, curling up around Stan, “I… you,”

“Shh,” Stan began to lean away, just a hair, but the boy followed him, “You’re gonna miss your movie.”

Richie nodded along, but he looked confused, like it wasn’t adding up in his head. 

“No, I, what’s your…?” 

“You’re going to miss your movie.”

All of the resistance left Richie, like that had been all he’d been worried about. The ease of Stan’s suggestion moved the other boy like a demand. Stan grabbed the icee, dripping with condensation, and slipped it into Richie’s loose grip. Stan snagged the quarter from between their palms, the circle indented across his skin. 

Richie jolted a bit at the sudden cold, Sentinel rush, as he became reacquainted with his surroundings. He looked at the drink, Stan, and back to the drink.

Stan watched his mouth open on a question, his grip flexed across the plastic cup as he looked up at Stan once more.

“Sorry, do I -?”

_normal I’m normal you don’t care you don’t see me_

“Yes?”

Richie blinked once, twice. His eyes lost their focus, as if he couldn’t see the blonde curls two feet in front of him. He took a long sip of his drink, and wandered off to the cinema.

Stan collapsed once the doors clicked shut behind Richie. Panicked huffs of air as he desperately swallowed a scream. How did he - _what_ did he do? 

It was luck, pure fucking luck, that Stan didn’t panic. Shock worked in his favor. Sentinel’s couldn’t sense shock, it was an absence of sense. An absence of the complete hysteria Stan was two steps away from.

Richie Tozier had been completely eased and walked away like he’d never seen him. That, that didn’t happen. That had never happened. Rogues were caught, always caught, fuck.

Stan pulled himself to his feet, unaware of the butter seeping into his slacks as he stumbled out from behind the counter. He couldn’t stay. He couldn’t be here. He had to leave, skip town, something.

There was no guarantee Richie wouldn’t remember in a moment. Wouldn’t have the four minutes of blacked out memory seep back into his elevated senses. Wouldn’t fucking, who knows - _sniff_ Stan out by the skin particles left on his palm. Who the fuck knew. 

Stan grabbed his jacket from the break room. Fighting with the zipper until he could feel tears well in his eyes. He needed to calm down. He was being suspicious. Suspicious meant rogue. Stan wasn’t a rogue. And he wasn’t about to get caught from some emaciated giant who drank blue icees.

Stan wiped his eyes furiously before making himself just breathe. In and out. Calm down. Think it through.

He couldn’t just bail. He had to leave professionally. Leave properly. No reason to make Mike start calling hospitals and police stations out of a good conscious when never-late-Stan didn’t show up tomorrow.

Mike was in the lobby when Stan wobbled out. Must’ve seen that it was unattended on the security cameras. His posture was easy as he scribbled away at his clipboard. He was humming to himself, some song Stan might’ve heard as a kid.

Stan cleared his throat, waiting for Mike to look up from his inventory charts. He did, and instead of a demand on where Stan had been or a reprimand on leaving inventory unattended; he smiled. The smile was soft, genuine, unguarded. Mike was a good person. Mike was a fucking good person and Stan had fucked all this up all on his own.

“I’m going to need some time off.” Stan croaked, “Indefinitely.”

Mike didn’t move right away, eyes darting between Stan’s own. Stan stared at the rumpled collar of Mike’s shirt. The orange glow of the poster lurked behind Mike’s shoulder.

Mike hopped up onto the counter, sitting with his elbows on his knees to keep himself from looming too high over Stan. Stan always scolded him for that, wiping down the counter after swatting him with the cleaning rag. Mike usually did it to get a laugh out of Stan. Neither was laughing now. 

“Are you okay?” Mike asked.

“Yeah,” Stan’s voice cracked out, he swallowed and tried again, “Yes. I’m okay. I just - something came up. Family thing.”

Mike knew he didn’t have any family. At least none Stan had admitted to. Stan hadn’t ever said where he was even from. No mention of a bright eyed boy or a cliff edge or hiding on a Greyhound between the seats clinging to a backpack with nothing but pictures and clothes.

Stan prayed Mike was going to be kind enough to just let him go. Just let him sink between the cracks before he was shoved out into the light and inside a cage.

But Mike, who always filled a moment with easy conversation and could loosen the knots in Stan’s spine, was silent.

Mike’s eyes flicked from Stan to stare at the corner behind him. Stan didn’t need to turn around to know.

A security camera. Angled right where Stan had stood with Richie not ten minutes before.

He finally hopped off the counter, and began to head towards the office. He didn’t take his eyes off Stan.

“Come here a second. I wanted to talk to you about something first.”

Stan’s feet didn’t move. His eyes slid over to the poster without his consent.

Spit began to clog his throat. Did Mike know? Had he reported him? Were there Sentinels on the other side of the door? 

They were waiting for him, to make a spectacle of him. A poor hapless rogue was brought home, saved, by a kind hearted employer who saw how misguided the guide had been. God, he couldn’t run. They always had cameras and news teams ready. Ready to track him. Hunt him down. Blur his face into the ghost of a life to scare others into coming forward. Fuck. fuck fuck _fuck._

Who would take care of Piper?

“Stan,” Mike coaxed, eyes open and honest and filling Stan with dread, “Come on. No reason to talk out here.”

Stan began to follow. Forcing his gait to remain as it may’ve been monitored a hundred times before. Nothing suspicious. Nothing worth reporting to a Center. Plain, boring, unremarkable Stanley Uris.

Mike’s office was empty. No hulking officers in dark uniforms waiting for him. Mike wandered over to where a cassette, Christ - Mike needed to update their technology, was recording the lobby.

“Been a little short staffed here,” Mike said, voice full of mirth as he thumbed across the stacked players, glancing up at the grainy blocks of their footage on the TV mounted on the wall, “My buddy's ready to kill me for showing up to the bar exhausted every night.”

“You’re a busy man,” Stan agreed lightly, eyes flying to each corner of the room. 

There were no cameras.

“That I am, that I am,” Mike laughed. 

Stan’s throat clicked as he asked, “What did you want to talk about?”

“Was actually wondering if you wanted a promotion,” Mike said, “I can’t do management and projection, so you get a pay bump and we hire someone else to clean bathrooms.”

 “... What?” 

“I know, you love the kids, but projectionist is pretty cool.” Mike’s expression didn’t match his voice. He sounded like he was trying to pitch something fun, but his face was stern, pressing, “You sit up in the second level, all alone in the dark with the film. I’d stay up there all day if I could.”

Alone. An isolated space all for himself where no one could reach him. For eight hours a day.

“I - yeah, if you need me to.” Stan kept his voice even, though he could feel the way his hands shook.

“Great! Now, we can’t make it immediate, but I’ve got the applications ready for a few interviews. Mainly college kids. Probably will blow everything off. But, hey, you’ll be hidden away from any spilled popcorn."

Mike handed Stan a crisp white page. THE FALCON printed with asinine questions Mike wasn’t going to look into if Stan getting hired was any indication. All of his reference numbers had been for traditional synagogues with receptionists he knew only spoke Yiddish.

Stan stared at the form, eyes flitting blindly until landing suddenly. Uncomprehending of the small neat text stamped in the information section.

"There's a typo," Stan said, trying to breathe around the sudden stone in his throat. "You - the punctuation,"

He couldn't get the words out, didn't _want_ to fix it.

Beside Classification, wedged neatly between Name and Age, with neat little boxes to check, read: 

Sentinel   Leveled   Guide

_Guide_

"Huh," Mike said, squinting at the form as if he didn't see it. Mike had written it; he had to have known - what was he _doing_?

Mike looked up at Stan. Neither blinked as Stan tried to figure out what the fuck Mike had done.

"You can't capitalize guide." Stan whispered. Not just 'don't'; you _can't._  

"My mistake." He smiled, and set the form behind him on his desk. He didn't move to correct it. "Thanks, Stan. Aw, dammit, can you - ?” 

Stan looked to where Mike had popped out CAMERA 3 from the recorder and began to… drag the film out of the roll.

“These things never work,” Mike complained as he tugged and stretched the footage out of the cassette, “You’d think with the historical status we’d get a break, but I guess we gotta keep everything authentic.” 

Stan’s mouth ran dry as Mike destroyed the tape. He slid the cassette back in, and let it jam.

Mike knew. Mike _knew_ and was breaking the law every second that he wasn’t screaming for the Center.

Stan swallowed hard, "Sure." He turned to leave.

“Will you consider it?”

Stan paused, hand on the knob that would put him back into the Center’s eye, “What?”

Mike smiled again, but his eyes looked harder, sharper, than they’d ever been. Stan almost didn’t recognize him, “A drink?”

“Again with the flirting, Mike,” Stan wheezed, desperate for a straight answer and terrified of getting one.

“What can I say? You’re one of the best, Stan. Tomorrow. You know the spot.”

Stan didn’t know the spot. Mike had never once said where he went to drink with his ‘buddy’.

Stan nodded. 

“Sure thing.”

Mike leaned across his desk to grab his own bag, rummaging through the front pocket. “Great, head home. You look like shit. That customer got handsy.”

Richie.

“Yeah, he was drunk. Said I looked like his ex.” Stan lied easily, letting it roll of his tongue.

“Figures.” Mike agreed, he tossed a pair of shades to Stan, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Stan slipped the shades on the moment he was free of the building. His eyes felt puffy and strained, God only knew how bad they must look. He walked no faster or slower than he did every day. Blending into the cracks along the broken sidewalks as he grew closer to his apartment.

The one, two, three locks slid shut. A ragged yell that had built in Stan began to force its way out and he shoved his sleeve into his locking jaw to keep from being heard through the thin walls.

It was a broken, battered cry. Tears seeped down his cheeks into the spit soaked cotton at the edges of his lips. Everything had fallen apart. From a quarter. A quarter had ruined all that he’d carefully cultivated.

Stan took a heaving breath as he tried to balance himself. He needed to pack. He needed to run. He had the prepacked duffel gripped in his fingers before he realized he didn’t know where to go. 

Where could he go that they wouldn’t look now? Where could he even go with Piper? She still couldn’t fly. He couldn’t just leave her here.

Stan looked to the fridge. Three magnets for The Falcon held up a note from the landlord, an envelope of cash, and a lottery ticket. 

02   53   01   21   23   +07  
31   07   11   23   59   +51  
12   45   49   02   34   +40  
34   33   12   18   15   +52  
44   23   34   31   52   +03  
25   11   43   50   16   +30

It was crumpled, fraying in a corner, and lined with tape in an attempt at homemade lamination. Stan stared at it. A shout bubbling in his throat again before a soft chirp cut through the deafening static in his mind.

“Hey, hey, I’m sorry,” Stan shushed, reaching for Piper as she fluttered and twitched, “It’s okay, everything's gonna be okay,”

Stan sat on the floor against his cot, curling around Piper as he stroked her feathers and let her nip at his chin. Exhaustion was pooling in his bones.

He needed to google Richard Tozier. He needed to find a burner phone with some data or go to a library under a fake name to do it. He needed to make sure no strings came back to him. Find out where he lived, where he worked, who he knew. What the fuck he was doing at a non-Sentinel standard establishment in the middle of the day.

Stan’s mind kept wandering back to him, despite Piper’s valiant attempt at regaining his full attention. To how he wore glasses despite having undoubtedly perfect vision, how he was so frail looking, reedy atop his long legs, how he smiled so small when Stan spoke to him. 

It had… it had been so easy. To guide Ric - the Sentinel. To ease him and send him on his way. He could’ve left him like that. Sunken down in his own senses, unable to tell up from down. Sure, the Center would’ve come running, but he’d have had a hell of a head start. Mike clearly wasn’t itching to grab a phone. 

But Stan hadn’t. He’d helped him without thought. As easy as breathing. The tug from deeper then his bones to guide Ri - _the Sentinel_ to safety in his own thoughts. They’d been compatible.

And Stan, despite all the panic, felt better than he had in years. He didn’t feel like his skin didn’t fit, like his bones were all off in their angles, like there was space in his blood. He felt whole.

Maybe this was how it used to feel. When guides were still Guides. When Sentinels and Guides could court, flirt, hell - even fuck, before settling together. Being happy together. Completing each other. 

A siren flew by Stan’s window, jarring him out of his soft thoughts and nearly dislodging Piper from his wrist. He held his breath until is passed. Counting the seconds until the wail stopped fading, how many blocks away the Sentinels would be. 

But it didn’t pass. The shriek of red and blue lights still filled his apartment as boots slammed to the concrete. The front gate was blown open with what could only be a battering ram. 

Stan didn’t hesitate before throwing himself into the closet, pulling Piper in close to his chest. Jamming himself into the corner, Stan opened a plastic sealed tub across from him and pulled out a fleece blanket. It was rancid, smelling of Piper’s old cage paper, beer, and aged leftovers. The smell nearly knocked Stan on his ass, and sent Piper shrilly squawking, but he tried to soothe her as he yanked it over both of them. 

If it was enough to make him gag, it was enough to make a Sentinel pass out. 

The footfalls came close enough that the floorboards beneath Stan rocked. He nearly bit through his lip at the stumble from just on the other side of the drywall.

“The fuck is that?” Came a gruff muffled voice.

Another voice responded, “Not our problem.”

The steps continued past with a, “Fucking shit hole.”

A door was slammed open. A sharp scream was cut off. Steps were slower now. A crying child echoed through the halls.

Stan held Piper closer.

They weren’t there much longer. Stan heard one say the place smelled like a homeless person was squatting.

The crying continued long after Stan had gotten the courage to get out of the blanket.

Stan poked his head out, if only to seem like a concerned and mildly nosey neighbor. A guide would keep hiding. Stan had nothing to be afraid of. Stan wasn’t a guide.

The unit was three down from his own. He could see scuff marks across the floor. A family portrait was shattered on the floor next to the welcome mat. They hadn’t bothered to shut the door. It’d been slammed off its hinges.

Stan quietly shut his door. Sliding his one, two, three locks into place. Then doing it again. And again. Knuckling the brass so tight his fingers went white. Shoving the lock shut, undoing, and once more. Stuck securing his unstable fortress. How many locks had they had on their door? How many deadbolts to protect their children?

Piper tugged at a curl by his ear. Stan let go of the locks. He went to the bathroom and made a small puddle of water in the sink for her to clean herself. As she preened, he yanked the shower handle and stepped in mindlessly. It was scalding hot. Stan scrubbed at his hair.

This world wasn’t soft. There was no room for compatibility beyond assigning a guide to a Sentinel. Stan had no place for Bill Denbroughs or Richie Toziers.

Stan scrubbed until his scalp stung. He rubbed soap across himself once, twice, three times.

He had to be clean for work tomorrow. It would be suspicious not to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit, my dudes. sorry that took so long. 
> 
> please leave a comment! lemme know what you think is happening, what you think is gonna happen, if it sucks.


	4. gemak

Richard Tozier did not stay away.

Stan had googled him, and nearly spit his stouffers macaroni across the room. Piper didn’t appreciate it.

 _Richie Tozier: Breakout Star of Saturday Night Live!_  
_CBS Pilot in the Works: Richie Tozier to Play Leading Man  
_ _Richie Tozier Leaves SNL after ONE SEASON - What We Know_

The articles seemed endless. An internet sensation for his standup and youtube videos; he booked a few small TV roles and eventually auditioned for SNL with apparently great success. Los Angeles had enough actors for Stan to have seen a few on the street and had enough streets shut down for filming that he’d nearly been late to work.

There were photos of him without glasses in magazines in clothes that cost more than Stan’s apartment. Interviews on talk shows and vlogs with other cast members. 2017 had been the fucking year of him.

Stan read all of them, every regurgitation of how he was a charmer and self deprecating and didn’t know how to cook and bisexual and his favorite color was orange. The articles dropped off in May, after he’d announced he was leaving SNL and wasn’t picking up the CBS comedy. People suspected drug use. A young star who shot to fame and couldn’t handle the expectations?

Or a Sentinel who couldn’t handle the strain without a guide. 

But none of the articles or wiki pages or _anything_ said a word beyond Leveled. There was no question about it. He was thin and wore glasses. Sentinels had a golden standard of 20/20 vision. Fan accounts fantaized him as a Sentinel, how big and strong he’d be and he’d ravage them in a fit of sensory passion after being blindsided by their beauty. Stan closed those out quickly.

Richie had moved to LA recently, and was rumored to be working on some new project. But the drug accusations clung to him with each new sighting of his rapid decline. TMZ followed him like a hawk before saying that he wasn’t worth trailing until the inevitable overdose story.

He looked so tired in all the pictures. An exhaustion down through his bones.

Stan practically looked like a mirror image after he stayed up the entire night reading about him. It had been to gather information. Purely to make sure he never walked his route on the way to and from work, if he needed to change grocery stores. Clearly he fucking didn’t, Richie lived across the valley. Stan worked near downtown, the commute would be killer. How he’d ended up at a shitty rundown non-Sentinel theatre on the other side of town was a fluke.  

But, right before Little Miss Sunshine was set to screen, a tall, sick looking, SNL alumni walked through the doors.

Stan could hide from him. He’d done it well enough the first time. And the boy looked so out of it it was like he didn’t even know where he was.

Stan didn’t greet him, didn’t want to draw attention to himself at all, and stood frozen until Richie mumbled, “Could I get m&m’s and an icee?”

“We only have blue.” Stan said quickly, knowing he’d be alright with it. 

“Best flavors are colors,” Richie snorted. Stan watched him pause, blink, and blink again. They’d had this conversation before. With any luck Richie just felt like he was having dejavu.

“$5.25,” 

Richie didn’t move for a long moment. Only his eyes dragged around in their sockets, like he couldn’t get them to process as fast as he wanted. He looked almost scared, wired.

Stan felt a tug in his ribs at the expression on Richie’s face. He ignored it. Fiercely.

Richie fumbled with his wallet and held out six dollars with a trembling hand. Stan didn’t raise his own to take it. Richie awkwardly set the bills atop the counter. Stan rang it up quickly and slid the change across the laminate coating with the candy and drink.

The cold seemed to shoot up Richie’s arm as he grabbed the cup, and for a second his eyes looked clear. Too clear, too clear, as he looked around him again. Stan’s jaw locked when the brown eyes landed on him. 

Richie blinked. Stan stopped breathing. 

“Sorry, do I kn-”

“You’re going to miss your movie.” Stan said, firm and coaxing. The words held the same lilt as the day before. And Richie’s eyes hazed over just the same. Like just Stan directly addressing him had soothed the ache in him. Stan’s ribs felt lighter. He wanted to break them.

“Yeah,” Richie’s throat clicked, eyes still on Stan even has his head turned away.

_normal_

“I’m sorry,” Richie began again, god, his voice was so much softer than the interviews, “Have-”

_normal i’m normal you don’t see me_

He blinked rapidly, seeming to clear dust from his eyes as he tried to gather his words.

_normalnormali’mnormal_

“You look-”

 _likenothing you don’t knowmenormalNORMAL NORMAL_  

Richie froze completely. For a second, Stan was worried he’d killed him.

Then he blinked, slowly, and walked into the theatre.

Stan’s ribs ached. He punched them.

 

\-----

 

The new girl who replaced Stan on the floor was, admittedly, much better at the job. She didn’t hide from Richie when he came in every fucking day. The first time she stood beside Stan he ducked behind the counter like a goddamn idiot. There were people from the Center everywhere the second _rumors of sensitivity_ started. Mike could’ve destroyed that tape, but Sentinels had been here for the poster the day before. What if they were on to him?

Stan chanced a look at Beverly and was greeted with a knowing smile. Oh God. Oh God, _ohfuck._

But she just winked and tapped the toe of her boot against his hip.

She recognized Richie immediately, but was a courteous as Stan had trained her to be. Richie was a spacey as ever, if not worse. Stan couldn’t take looking at him like that. It wasn’t until she was crouching next to him that he realized Richie had trailed away from the concessions stand and into his movie.

“Someone’s got a crush, huh?”

She thought he was a fanboy. A complete dork who hid from his crush. Good. Stan could work with that.

She was funny as anything, with BEV scrawled neatly across her name tag. She even put two little hearts next to it. She had a cigarette behind her ear and eyeliner smudged just so. Stan had trained her, and found her easy enough to talk to after her acceptance of his inability to face Richie.

“So, when is it ethically acceptable to spit in a soda?”

“If they hit on you.” Stan answered without missing a beat. She let out a sharp laugh, her eyes bright like childhood.

“Well, then I’ll just have you kick their ass, Stan,”

“Oh, sure,” Stan agreed, “I’ll lay them out for you.”

She squeezed his shoulder with her tongue poking through her smile, “Thanks, babe.” Beverly only touched with a firm grip. She didn’t brush or let you wonder where she might go. Everything was intentional and visible. Stan knew that was a learned habit. He didn’t lean into the touch, but he didn’t move away either. Bev was nice, but Stan wasn’t going to be seeing much of her after today.

Stan knew she was a friend of Mike’s; he’d never actually had anyone come in for interviews beyond Beverly Marsh throwing her boots up onto the arm on her chair and saying, “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called you here today.” She was filling out paperwork within ten minutes.

Stan wondered if she was the friend Mike was always talking about. Mike had used male pronouns since the first offer; but there was no way to know if that was a cover. Mike never said his friend’s name. He mentioned he liked whiskey - ever mindful of how Stan didn’t seem to imbibe in any vices - but no age or name or anything to distinguish him in a crowd. He was just a standing invitation for drinks at an undisclosed location. Beverly looked like she could hold her liquor, Stan half thought she might have some in her thermos under the register. 

It had almost come off his tongue a few times, between her fits of teasing giggles and winks. The quiet offering of trust that Stan didn’t have in his marrow anymore. The reach to the girl with fire for hair about what the fuck was going on anymore.

If Beverly saw the tension in Stan’s shoulders, she never said anything. Which, in a way, was worse. He could lie his way out of nearly anything. But he didn’t know how to handle someone who was better at it.

Beverly Marsh was a friend of Mike Hanlon. And Mike Hanlon knew what had happened with Richard Tozier. Stan wanted to like them both, God - he did - but something about _everything_ about them felt off. Anxiety was sharpening to paranoia like a wire wrapping against Stan’s throat. Mike had information on him. He’d destroyed the tape, sure, but all it took was a murmur for him to send Stan to a Center. To see Stan’s blurred face dragged from the Falcon on the news that night.  

Stan liked Mike. But he couldn’t trust him anymore. 

And Stan didn’t have enough of a spine to try and fix it. Mike was the closest thing to a friend Stan had in the entire city, sans Piper. And the day Mike handed him the key to the deadbolt on the projection room, he’d said, “It’s the only key,” With what felt too close to hurt in his eyes. 

“That’s a terrible design flaw,” Stan answered. 

“Yeah, well,” Mike laughed, “Good thing I trust you.”

Stan didn’t deserve it. But neither of them said anything.

Stan had worked at The Falcon longer than he’d ever planned, but he’d never seen the room, much less the door. The place had been owned by spies, Mike would say, communists who would hide sympathizers during the witch hunt. The projection room was built with a hidden door to keep them safe.

Stan had always assumed it was bullshit, a story to try and get him to smile, but the door was flush to the wood paneled walls, no handle, but a harsh push and the panel jarred enough in to slide on a track.

“I’m only showing you the entrance once,” Mike said, gravely serious, “I’m gonna laugh my ass off watching you shove the walls trying to remember tomorrow.”

“Such a courteous employer,” Stan said, more relieved than he should’ve been at Mike’s snort.

The door had a code, 62683, which Mike was merciful enough to write down for him, before turning the lock and revealing a small staircase. The door clicked behind them, but the stairs seemed to lead nowhere - rising until there were flush to the inky ceiling above. 

“Well,” Stan hummed, “I guess this is the part where you kill me.” 

“Later,” Mike agreed. 

Despite all of it, Stan wasn’t _afraid_ of Mike. And he followed blindly in the dark up the stairs to nowhere. Stan was broken and paranoid and but not of Mike himself. He simply had too many ties to the end of Stan. Too many variables to make him disappear if he wasn’t careful. Mike didn’t have a cruel bone in his body. He might have too many self sacrificing ones, though. The selfless didn’t get far anymore.

The stairs to nowhere went to a hatch in the ceiling, there was no lock on it, but Mike had to give it a good shove to punch it open. Stan climbed the last of the steps, and entered the projection room. 

The room was as sparse as his apartment with only a stool and a bookcase full of reels. He’d said as much when Mike had showed him. The manager had laughed, and said he’d bring Stan a quiche if he could ever be bothered to tell him where he lived. Stan said that his information was all on his employment form, but he was suspecting Mike knew that he’d listed his neighbor’s unit number.

The projection room was a scrim of dust floating through cold space. Blinding beams of light cut through the fog that surrounded Stan. The _clickclickclick_ of the films whirlwind buzzing beside his ear was his only conversation.

He could hear Beverly and Mike laughing before the whir of the projectors filled his empty space. Could hear the way she always dinged her hip on the counter despite Stan pointing out the edge every time he had been down there. How Mike fussed over her and she waved him off with a laugh. Stan swallowed around the lump in his throat.

It was better up here. Stan was safe up here. Mike had given him a fortress on a greened metal keyring. Stan was safe and alone and didn’t need to keep a wall to his back anymore. He put his stool on the floor hatch and kept the world out. Isolated in a vacuum with only flickering pictures to watch him.

This was the perfect situation. The room was guarded with numerical code and deadbolts and fireproof doors. The only windows weren’t large enough to jam his shoulders through, much less anyone else. He sat above the bustle of the small Falcon crowds. 

_clickclickclick_

Alone on his stool in the dark.

 

\-----

 

“He asks about you,”

Stan startled off of his stool, head whipping around the room from his perch. The house lights were on in the left wing, no one had shown up for Yogi Bear. Mike seemed to be the only soul with nostalgia for that disaster of a movie. Stan dragged the stool over to the window and leaned up to the glass to find one Miss Marsh sitting on a headrest, her legs swung atop the armrests of the next aisle. It was like she didn’t know how a chair worked.

“What?” Stan called, sliding the glass aside.

“Richie Tozier,” She clarified, “He asks about you.”

Stan didn’t know how to respond to that. Richie, as far as he’d assured, didn’t know who he was. How could he ask for a boy he didn’t see?

He settled on, “ _What_?”

Beverly just snickered, heels tapping against velour seats, “He doesn’t know your name, but he asks. Goes all dazed and confused and asks where the other person is.” She pulled the cigarette from behind her ear and twirled it between her fingers. “It’s weird, y’know, I didn’t believe the drug hype about him. He’s not on anything I’ve ever seen.”

Stan watched her look up at him, really stare at him. He wanted her to look away.

She did, a moment later, with another laugh, “Then again, maybe there are rich people drugs we can only dream about.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Stan agreed quietly.

“I miss you, Stanley,” She called, and reached her fingers out for him, “Grab my hand.”

Stan half heartedly waved his arm through the window, “Can’t quite reach. So close though,”

“Throw down your curls then. I’m sure they stretch to Rapunzel specifications.”

“You’ve figured me out,” He lamented, “The jig is up.”

“Pretty sure you’re the only kid I can’t figure out, Mister Uris.”

Stan’s witty remarks halted at that. His tongue stuck behind his teeth and the unprompted sincerity, “I’m older than you.” He finally muttered.

“Yet I’m so much wiser,” Beverly hopped up to stand on the armrests, precariously balanced as she reached dramatically once more, “Let me in your tower, it’s so hard to make fun of you from here.”

“I don’t know, you’re really killing it so far,” Stan thought about the code and the lock and the stairs to a door he could stand on.

“Please?” She drew the word out into a long keen, looking delighted at Stan’s eye roll.

“Oh, c’mon, you never say please. Now I know you’re trying to kill me.” He made to shut the glass, just to see her shout indignantly. 

“As if I could hurt a face that cute.”

“This is workplace harassment." Stan pointed out, eyebrows furrowing suspiciously, "I’m gonna tell Mike.”

Beverly was not impressed, wagging her cigarette at him like an annoyed school teacher. He wondered if she ever actually smoked it, or if it was just for her image. Maybe both, “He invites you to drinks every night, pretty sure he’s in love with you.” 

Beverly knew about the drinks.

Stan chanced, “Would you be there?”

She waved him down again, “If you want a date you have to ask at my elevation level.”

“You mean I’d have to squat?”

“Watch it, Uris, I’m at perfect knee kicking height,”

“More like knee punching-”

Beverly clutched her chest, “ _Rude_ ,” Their rhythm lulled for a moment. Stan could see her thinking through her next words, “I could be there too, yeah. A little quartet. We could sing in matching vests.”

Beverly wasn’t the friend. So there was a third, unaccounted person who knew about Mike and Stan and Beverly and possibly Richie by association. Stan didn’t say anything to that. Beverly watched him for what must’ve been long enough to lose hope at continuing their conversation. He watched her hop off the armrests, and tuck her cigarette back behind her ear.

Stan blurted out, “How do you know he isn’t asking for Mike?”

Beverly looked back up to him, eyebrows cocked, “Hm?”

“Richie Tozier,” He began, he wished he hadn’t - but the words had shot out of him, “Mike works here too. Amazingly the building isn’t run by three people alone.”

“But we’re the only morning shift,” Beverly corrected, hands dug into her pockets, “And he’s been edgy since you stopped hiding behind the candy bars.”

“He didn’t even know I was back there.”

Beverly didn’t say anything. Her stare cut through Stanley, right into his core. Her childhood eyes were blinding bright in the cheap fluorescent lights. She took her hands out of her pockets and faced him directly; posture open and vulnerable. Stan’s shoulders shrunk in despite himself. She smiled something soft, and spoke even softer, “Let me up there, Stanley. We can talk.”

Stan didn’t hold her gaze, couldn’t look at her sweet face and weighted offering, “I have to set up the next showing.” He didn’t want to talk. Didn’t need to talk. Couldn’t talk.

“... Sure thing, babe.” Beverly let off easy enough, the tension in Stan's jaw must've been evident even from there. But, just before Stan could slide the glass shut, lock himself away once more, she said, “Drinks tonight?”

It was the first time she herself had offered. Stan looked at her, really looked, and smiled a crooked wobble. 

“Maybe.”

He slid the glass shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bev is here oh wow
> 
> what do you think is gonna happen? what do you hope happens? does any of it make sense?


	5. lethed

Stan had never seen a guide taken. He watched the news avidly, tracking and marking all locations where rogues were being spotted, a flurry of thumbtacks into a map of all the neighborhoods. There did look to be any pattern, any system, just a witch hunt. The closest call had been a few weeks before, hiding in his closet with Piper under a scrim of filth. He had a strategy for his home, his territory, smells he could drop and noises he could make; everything designed to deter a Sentinel’s approach. But he’d never _seen_ what they do.

Maybe it was the projection room with all the locks, or Beverly’s attempts at friendship, or Mike’s risky offerings of trust. Maybe it was all of it. But Stan hadn’t anticipated facing a ‘rescue’ in person.

It’d been early enough in the day that Stan clutched an obnoxiously large thermos of tea. The weather was rough, heavy wind and a dry cold that made him wrap up in a sweater and oversized jacket. Beverly had laughed when she saw him stumbling his way through unlocking the front door for her.

“You look like a little Russian doll,”

“Yeah,” Stan mumbled, half asleep, “I open up to more depression.”

Beverly snorted, “That’s hot.” And held the door for him.

Stan turned to her, too tired to make a proper snapback, but hoping whatever nonsense spilled out was enough to make her snort again. But the smile on Beverly’s face had turned to shock, a soft shock, her face almost slack as her eyes widened. She was looking just over Stan’s shoulder, and he began to twist to follow her gaze. He’d hardly shifted his feet before a body barreled into his own.

Hot tea exploded across linoleum floors, scalding Stan’s hands and face. His head _whapped_ against the tiles, and a burst of color sprung across his vision as the girl on top of him scrambled to regain her footing.

Her elbow dug into his chest sharply, but Stan was too taken with the raw panic in her eyes. A flightless bird caught in a snare. She must’ve been running full speed when she’s collided with Stan, but her limbs seemed locked, like her sudden stop in momentum left her frozen. Unable to make a decision with too many variables at play.

“ _Stop_!”

The girl snapped back into her own skin, and took off, tripping over Stan as she went. Stan only just avoided a sudden horde of trampling boots by the grace of Beverly, who’d dragged him by his sweater with a violent tug. He skidded across the floor and into her arms, propped against her crouched form as four, six, ten tactical suited _giants_ rushed the girl. A more petite woman, blonde, watched as the girl was surrounded.

The girl who ran into Stan couldn’t have been older than twenty. Her hair was dark and cropped to her chin with curls that stuck to her ruddy cheeks. She wore a soft dress with a tea soaked hem. She was bawling as she backed up.

The men and women flanking her seemed restless, agitated, and one had slight limp. He fell out of formation, for only a moment, but a gap had opened in the sea of body armor. Stan and the girl saw it at the same time. Her eyes met his own as she threw herself forward. She was small, smaller than Beverly. She got just past the flock, and Stan saw a desperate hope in her eyes, when a stun baton dug into her side.

She shrieked, and collapsed in on herself. Her body spasming at the current circulating through her. The man pressed it against her again, violently jammed against her calf; the same leg he was limping from. Beverly clung tighter to his clothes, like he was going to run at them, like he wasn’t frozen to his core.

The girl looked at Stan again. Bloodshot eyes glossy with tears as she brokenly choked, “Help me…”

The uniformed woman walked to stand over her. She pulled her walkie talkie to her mouth, looking nearly bored now that the brunette girl was weeping on the ground, and began to drone, “Officer Gretta Keene. Rogue Collection Division, proceeding containment of Betty Ripsom, age seventeen.” She reached into a pocket on her belt, and pulled out a handful of metal links, solid with a slight curve to each piece. She began to snap the pieces together.

“H-help me,” Betty begged.

“You have been hiding your biological status as a guide.”

“Please, _please_ ,” Her hand wobbled across the tea soaked floor as she reached for Stan and Beverly.

“Rogues are an enemy of the state and -”

“ _Help_ _me_ \- ” Gretta jutted her chin and the baton was against Betty’s neck, she choked on a shriek.

“ _As_ such,” Gretta continued, annoyed she’d been cut off at all, “Not tolerated. You will be brought to the Downtown Los Angeles Guide Rehabilitation Center for treatment and education to properly serve your country.”

The links, now eight dangling down, went around Betty Ripsom’s neck. Gretta squeezed, and the two free ends met to close into an endless chain. A collar. Betty’s throat clicked beneath it. It was too tight. Gretta stood upright once more, and pushed a bump in the glove of her right hand. The collar lit up. Betty screamed.

Gretta had a ghost of a smile as she pulled her walkie to her mouth once more.

“Rogue contained.”

Stan watched them grab Betty’s arms, grips leaving the skin of her biceps white with pressure. She couldn’t have weight a hundred pounds soaking wet, but they treated her like a wild animal. She was still awake, horribly awake, as they forced her feet under her. The blurred face of her on the news wouldn’t just be to hide her identity. It hid the shock collar.

“Huggins! Criss!” Gretta snapped, and the men holding Betty shot upright, jarring her to stand on the tips of her toes. Neither paid her any mind, “Get her in the van.”

“Yes ma’am.” The two men answered. They dragged Betty through the doors of The Falcon. She was still quietly, so quietly, whispering for help.

Gretta Keene’s boots came to a stop in front of the crouched Beverly and collapsed Stan. She said, “The Center will take care of the door. Do either of you require medical attention?”

Stan blinked, and looked at the still open door. The glass was splintered, whether from smacking the wall or Stan’s back hitting it; he wasn’t sure. His spine bloomed a pain something fierce. He stared at the door as his tongue stuck to his teeth.

“No,” Beverly answered, voice smooth, “We’re fine. Thank you.”

Gretta nodded, but didn’t follow her squad members. Her knees clicked as she crouched in front of Stan. Her eyes were huge, a swamp green that felt cold and empty, “Are you alright?”

No, Stan thought, he wasn’t alright at all. But he nodded in what he prayed was a natural manner.

“Cheer up, kid,” She snapped, a dishonest smile smeared across her cheeks, “You just saved a Sentinel.”

Stan had been in her way. She was running and Stan had been in her way. She was caught because Stan had been there when she would have run into The Falcon and hid and -

“What’s your name?” Gretta asked, snapping Stan out of the clawing panic in his throat. But he couldn’t find his words, she was too close, she was a Sentinel and too fucking close to him and she needed to

_g e t   a w a y_

Gretta’s knees creaked as she lost her footing, tipping off kilter and dropping one knee to the floor to keep from completely eating it in a puddle of lukewarm tea. Her big eyes were hauntingly large, blinking with pupils dilating in rapid flutters. Her hand clutched her chest, like she could hold her heart beneath kevlar.

Stan watched her rotate, getting to move, before her foot splashed the edge of the puddle. She froze, eyes darting to the rippling echoes, laser focus, before slowly moving her swampy irises back to Stan. She didn’t leave, didn’t fold under like Richie and Bill had. They weren’t compatible.

Beverly pulled him minutely closer against her breast, but Gretta’s hyper focus caught the action. Her brows rose, chest puffed, and she leaned in close, _toofuckingclose_ to Stan once more.

“What’s -”

_get away_

“Your-”

_get away go away go away die_

“Name?”

_you’re going to kill betty she’ll never make it in there get away from me_

_get away from ME DI_ **_E D I E D I_ ** **E**

Gretta stopped breathing.

“She’s sinking!” Beverly yelled, yanking Stan’s gaze away from the pinpoint pupils of Officer Keene. His vision pooled into a foggy haze of overwashed flannel, painted nails digging into his scalp. His side was flush against her, breathing stifled with cotton smushed to his nose.

Boots came flying back into building. Beverly, with tears in her throat, rushed, “She looked at the puddle for a long time and my boot dragged on the floor and squeaked and she just honed in on it. She’s stuck - “

Beverly couldn’t spit out another word before a vial was jammed into Gretta’s nostrils, the effect was instantaneous. Smelling salts. Old school recipes still worked. Stan didn’t look up from Beverly’s shirt, let her cry and panic for the officer as they escorted her out. With a commanding Sentinel under, they wouldn’t look twice at the two movie theatre employees. They didn’t move until the tires sped off, Gretta and Betty inside.

Stan felt Beverly twist her leg from under him, and kick the door shut. The glass shattered to the floor.

“Well... shit.” Beverly mumbled.

Stan looked up to see her face, and found nothing. No emotion at all. Tear tracks cut through her foundations and left scrawls of mascara. But her breathing was smooth and even. Her face almost serene.

Stan had at least half a foot on her, so he didn’t make her try to lift them both. His cheeks and nose stung from where tea had splattered, and he couldn’t get his fingers to stop trembling.

Bev yanked her cigarette from her ear and lit it. Blowing the smoke out the shattered door, she said, “Do we have anything to tape this shut?”

Stan nodded, but didn’t move. Beverly took drag after drag, until barely a butt was left, and flicked the ashes out the hole. She moved around Stan, pillaging the box office desk and coming back with painter’s tape and old movie posters. Stan watched her jam Caddyshack and Howl’s Moving Castle over the gaping maw of the door until the wind didn’t bite his skin anymore.

“C’mon,” Beverly coaxed, middle finger and thumb linking around Stan’s wrist. Linking shut, like the collar around Betty’s throat, too tight, _tootight_ -

Beverly stepped back as Stan jerked away. He clutched his wrist to his chest, eyes searching her’s for something he wasn’t sure of yet. Beverly kept her palms up and open, making no move to touch him again.

She spoke, “If you’re gonna cry you can’t do it here,” Her eyes slid to the glass wall, exposing them to the street, “C’mon, Stan.”

He followed after her, slowly, to the office.

“It was my fault,”

“That cunt had it coming,” Beverly snapped, digging in her pockets until she yanked out a carton of Marlboros, “Not the best timing, but,” she shrugged her shoulders as she lit another cigarette. The lighter’s glow was vivid across her freckled skin. Her thumb fell off the plastic trigger and it was out in a moment. A light, snuffed out of existence, like it was never even there.

Betty Ripsom had been snuffed away. Written out of her own life the second a collar had clicked shut. A little light trying to get away until she slammed into a movie theatre employee.

“She could’ve gotten away,”

Beverly looked at Stan, brow furrowed, “What?”

The words didn’t come right away, catching on the lump that had sprung inside Stan’s throat. His molars clenched against one another as he tried to make the words form. They tripped out of his mouth in a thick voice, wet with guilt, “I tripped her, it was my fault, they’re gonna kill her she - “

“That wasn’t your fault,” Beverly cut in, stepping close to Stan.

Stan shook his head, curls whipping around his clouding peripherals, “She could’ve - “

“She never would’ve made it.” Beverly cradled Stan’s face in her hands, “It was over the second she got caught. There’s nowhere she could’ve run to.”

Stan sobbed for what could’ve been minutes or an hour. Air rattling in his chest, lower lip quivering as he hiccuped for air. Beverly’s ringed thumbs stroking along his cheeks, smearing the tears across his flushed skin. She didn’t speak, didn’t joke, just let him cry.

Stan hadn’t cried when Bill… when he last went to the quarry. He’d stood there with his eyes clenched shut until the sun peaked above the tree lined horizon. It might’ve been shock, that’s what they’d said when they found him, but Stanley hadn’t felt anything. A complete absence of connection to what had happened to his only friend.

He felt a lot for Betty Ripsom though. He felt too much, feelings clawing up his throat and prickling in his eyes. He wanted to scream, yell, something, but it all was too much. He didn’t know why he was crying like a child for a girl he didn't know. She’d been in and out of his life in minutes. Why he would cry for a stranger and become a shell for Bill.

But she wasn’t a stranger, not really. She was an omen. Betty Ripsom was what Stanley could become in an instant. He’d seen himself in her. She’d had an entire life before Stan had come between her and freedom that she’d never really have. Stan would never have it either.

He sniffled, nose clogged, and tried to put himself back together. They should call Mike, let him know what happened. Beverly pat his cheek, and Stan blinked until he could see her clearly. She was so adaptable, didn’t flinch once during any of that. Even when Stan…

Stan stilled.

“What did you mean?”

“About what, Stanley?” She asked, voice soothing.

“She deserved it - Gretta, how did you - “

“C’mon, Stan.” She sighed. Her eyes were kind, but tired. Stan’s throat clicked.

She knew; Stan had feared she might, but there was no doubt now. Beverly had watched him nearly kill someone. He _would’ve_ killed them if Beverly hadn’t stepped in. She’d saved him; if the officers had seen any of it Stan would’ve been locked up in that van in a second.

For a split second he tried to ease her, a desperate hope that she was a Sentinel; that he wasn’t just caught from not being careful enough.

_you don’t know me_

He begged, brow pinching as her looked into her light eyes.

_i’m no one you don’t know me forget me forgetforg_

“That doesn’t work on me, Stanley,” She hummed, and a crooked smile danced around her cigarette, “Just plain ol’ Bevvie. Nothing special.” She smushed his cheeks with a wink.

“ _That’s_ not true,” Stan mumbled, heart aching that she’d even imply it.

Beverly might have been the bravest person Stan had ever met. That or the stupidest. Maybe both. They could’ve arrested her, even killed her, if they felt she was withholding the retrieval of a guide. Aiding an enemy of the state. The cigarette dangled loosely between her lips, embers fading as she watched Stan watch her. He knew she was waiting for him to decide what to do, how to react; if he’d run. If he’d lock up and shut down and pretend none of this was happening.

He didn’t run, just pinched his mouth tight and waited for her to decide what happened now.

“I could use a drink,” Beverly decided, “I don’t think my coffee’s gonna cut it.”

“There’s no bars open.” It wasn’t even nine yet.

“That’s what the roof’s for,” She answered, “We can paint the town red after we’re good and toasted.”

She led them both outside, but took the emergency exit through the theatre. Stan was grateful, he didn’t want to see the spill of glass and tea again. Beverly still had her bag on her shoulder, and secured it before climbing an almost concerningly rusty fire escape ladder. Stan’s sneakers slid on the rungs, each step cautious as he followed the recklessly quick pace of Beverly. She nearly slipped off twice. Maybe she _was_ just stupid. Stan didn’t think so though.

Stan, admittedly, had never been to The Falcon’s roof. The idea of whatever smog covered debris settling on the building wasn’t even a little bit appealing. But something about Beverly’s brash lead allowed Stan not to think about it. Or maybe he was in shock from earlier. He’d like to think it was Bev.

It was exactly what he’d anticipated, save for three folding chairs jammed behind the air conditioning unit. Beverly yanked two out from the crevice and shook them until they opened. She plopped into one and gestured for Stan to do the same. He sat, and watched with a bemused look as she rifled through her bag.

“Oh my God,” Stan laughed as she pulled out her thermos, “Do you actually have booze in there?”

“Stanley, these accusations are cruel and unfounded,” She lamented, clutching her thermos to her chest as her other hand brought out a bottle of Jack Honey, “I keep my booze in my purse like a fucking lady.”

She handed the bottle to Stan and popped the thermos lid open. Quickly chugging down coffee that was, “Fuck - hot - shit,” she made room to pour in a solid handful of fingers of whiskey. Stan handed the thermos back after she’d put the bottle away and watched her cap and shake the thermos, crudely mixing the alcohol and caffeine.

Beverly screwed the cap off again, and filled the removable cup to the brim. She handed it to Stan and took a swig of her own from the canister. They sat in silence, the space between them softening to what it had been before this morning, but stronger after the chaos of it.

Beverly could turn him in, Stan knew that, but she hadn’t. She had risked her own life for him. Stan wondered if his parents would’ve done the same. If he hadn’t blended so well into the wallpaper. He thought they loved him well enough, but love wasn’t supposed to be part of it. Good parents will tell the Center that their child may be a guide. A good parent cares about the future of _all_ the children, not just their own.

And she had been right earlier, he was a dead man the moment someone knew. She already knew. Stan would have to settle for being a dead man walking; but he didn’t think Beverly would nail his casket shut. Not after all that. Trusting her wouldn’t hurt him more now than fighting it.

Stan figured he could have a friend once more in his life.

“It took me awhile,” Beverly said, voice soft between them, “To realize how bad the world was. I grew up poor, rough area, bad…” She paused, taking a long drink. She didn’t wince at the burn, “Bad parents. But I didn’t really _get_ how the world was until I was out in it on my own. My whole family was normal,”

She stopped herself, eyes darting to Stan at her choice of words, “Normal,” Stan agreed, “That’s the best word for it.”

“Yeah, normal… so I didn’t realize what it was like for everyone else. Even once I was on my own I was surrounded by friends and work and parties and I thought being an adult was the greatest thing in the world. Like no one could hurt me again because I wasn’t gonna let them anymore. Like everyone had the opportunity to make something of themselves.

“No one who isn’t a guide sees what it’s like. What it’s really like. No one is scared of going outside or of being taken. We all are living pretty happy normal lives at the… the _expense_ of guides. Because we don’t want to see them as people. We’ve allowed ourselves to not see them at all. We put them in a prison that blocks out the goddamn sun!” She didn’t need to elaborate on that; and blocking the sun was just barely an exaggeration.

The Center cut through the Los Angeles skyline. Completely unavoidable to the eye, poking above the tops of skyscrapers. No one _called_ it a prison. It was a rehabilitation center; by all claims and accounts. A safe haven for new Sentinels who needs an adjustment period to really control all of their incredible gifts. It had rooms specially built to meet Sentinel standards, education on how to hone their senses, and a placement program for getting their own brand new shiny guide.

The tower was made up of three segments. The first ten floors were all glass panelling, lush, open and inviting for all the scared kids ready to embark on their birthright of greatness. The top floors were where the Sentinels trained. Pamphlets scattered across the city boasted military training and tranquil sensory deprivation tanks. No expense was spared to breed the next great generation of leaders.

The middle floors had no windows; guides were a flight risk - especially from twenty stories high. There wasn’t much information, if any, at what exactly was up there. Sparse pamphlets with serene and content guides were given to parents when black vans came to take their kids. How they would be prepared and safe and helpful. It was an _honor_ to be dragged from your room before you know what’s going on.

“I can’t stand it, I can’t fucking stand it, Stanley. We’ve made a hell for people just because we were told it was the right thing to do.” She scrubbed a hand across her eyes, and Stan almost wanted to hold her face like she’d done for him. He let the toe of his sneaker tap her boot. She laughed wetly, “Fuck, I don’t know. I’ll never know. That’s the whole point.”

“No one does,” Stan said, “Not even guides. No one says what really happens; just that it’s for the best.”

“That didn’t look like the best for Betty.” Beverly said. It was the first time she’d said her name, it fell heavy between them.

Stan took a sip of his drink, he held the whiskey on his tongue until the burn demanded he swallow, “It wasn’t.”

It was the first time Stan had spoken up for who he was since he was a child in Ms. Collins class. His eyes stung, and he blamed it on the coffee as he took another drink.

Beverly hooked her foot around Stan’s ankle. Stan slid his leg over so her shorter one didn’t have to stretch to reach him. They drank until the thermos was empty.

 

\-----

 

It had taken Beverly a long time to see what Sentinels did to guides. But the thing that had taken _Stan_ a long time to realize was that Sentinels didn’t _do_ anything. There was no point to their ‘gifts’, no divine purpose that could explain how they ran everything. In a way that was even scarier. A group of people who, by all accounts, were ordinary had convinced an entire society that they needed Sentinels to survive. That guides were a necessary sacrifice of rights to keep Sentinels at their peak.

Soldiers were Sentinels, politicians were Sentinels, leaders were Sentinels. They were stronger than the rest of the world. Carried the burden on greatness like Atlas atop their shoulders. Stan thought about Bill’s dad. The man who couldn’t leave the dark or his scotch.

Yeah. He really carried the world.

… Bill had though. Bill had carried Stan through thick and thin. Had fought off bullies neither were big enough to stand a chance against. He’d practically raised Georgie. Bill had been a superhero.

Bill had been a superhero who Stan made fly off a cliff.

Sometimes Stan let himself be glad for it, let the oily shame seep in his bones until his marrow became heavy with it. When he was hiding in the dark of his apartment and holding his breath until the sirens stopped. They had been children; Bill wasn’t old enough to become cruel yet. Stan didn’t know if he could’ve handled Bill’s eyes looking at him like Gretta Keene. Seeing him as an object. Swayed by the unwavering pillars of their world.

Stan would have flown into the rocks himself. But he hadn’t. Bill had. The first Sentinel sacrificed in the the name of a guide’s safety.

Stan pressed his teeth down into his cheek, slowly applying pressure until the welling blood hurt more than the memories. He clenched a moment longer, then yanked a tissue from his pocket to dab off the blood that seeped from the corner of his mouth. Beverly offered the whiskey bottle, which she had begun to sip straight, “Gotta sterilize that,” She joked, though Stan could see concern in her eyes. He took the drink, and winced at the sting.

Handing the bottle back, Stan looked along the street for the minimal foot traffic. The Falcon wasn’t a popular scene - never quite catching the hipster demographics eye.

“Like clockwork,” Beverly muttered, and Stan followed her gaze to a Richie Tozier walking up the street.

Beverly had already called Mike to say there was a break in and they should cancel screenings for the day. Stan had begun to protest that it was fine, they didn’t need to lose a day of profits - he knew she was calling off the day for him. But, the thought of being alone in the dark didn’t have the appeal it did before. The locks didn’t seem strong enough anymore.

Richie wandered to the front entrance of The Falcon. He was swaying as he stared at the marquee, no longer lit to advertise movies Richie must’ve seen so many times he memorized them. Stan watched as he stood there, unable to process that he couldn’t get inside. For a moment, it almost seemed like he’d break through the makeshift door cover. Rip the posters away and step into the unlit lobby of strewn glass. Beverly looked like she thought so too, her grip on the plastic armrests tightening the longer Richie loitered.

But Richie eventually left, ducking his head low as he huddled deeper into his leather jacket. He didn’t look strong at all. He looked like a kid. A lost, scared kid.

“His glasses are gigantic,” Stan said, after the boy had turned the corner.

“Maybe he needs them to see,” Beverly answered. They both knew he didn’t. But his eyes were magnified beyond the idea of non-prescription. Stan didn’t get it. Stan didn’t get anything about Richie.

“Did he really ask about me,” Stan asked, tongue loose from honeyed liquor, “Or was that a way to get into my secret base?”

Beverly laughed, “I could’ve seduced you to get up there. Gone on about your cherub curls for five more minutes and you’d’ve let me up.”

“I’m not that vain,” Stan protested.

Beverly nodded along, “Just about your hair,” The sneaker jabbing at her ankle was met with a laugh, but her face settled into something softer, honest, “He does. I thought I knew why, but he’s too out of it to ever be a plant for a Center. I think he just remembers you.”

“He doesn’t though,” Stan admitted, “He doesn’t see me at all.”

It felt less dramatic to say to someone who knew what he meant. Had seen what he could do.

“Then maybe he wants to remember you.”

Beverly sounded optimistic for Stan, tentative hope that he could be happy with Richie, like it was even a remote possibility. Maybe she was a romantic for the stories, the way things used to be. When guides and Sentinels found each other through random encounters and connected so dearly that they could never forget each other. It was a sweet, misplaced thought. It made Stan’s ribs ache.

“He can’t,” Stan answered simply.

“I know.”

Stan watched Beverly peel the label off her bottle, picking away glue until only the small bee logo remained. They sat and talked about anything and nothing at all until Beverly checked her phone. Stan didn’t remember it being so shitty looking; it flipped open to show chipped off buttons with a splintered crack across screen. He didn’t think they even made those anymore.

Beverly took one more swig and asked, “Wanna go grab a drink?”

“Sure.”

 

\-----

 

Beverly rode a bike, and only had to coerce Stan a little to stand on the back pegs. He’d insisted he pedal, she was smaller than him and would fit better, but one look at how small the _bike_ was left him clinging to her shoulders for dear life.

They swerved around cars and hugged turns at alarming speeds. Beverly’s hair whipped like brush fire as she sped through the Los Angeles streets. It felt like a small miracle they made it unharmed, besides Stan tripping getting off the bike; but apparently that didn’t count.

The bar was a complete dive. Weather and age created uneven stain across old wood carvings that wrapped around a neon glow of The Taproom. The windows had antique painted glass and minimal cracks between panels. The bar had a tattoo parlor on one side and an alleyway on the other. A pang of guilt rang through Stan’s chest as he noted the obscured side exit. Beverly’s arm was linked through his own once they locked her bike to a lamppost, navigating the busier foot traffic as Stan stumbled slightly tipsy beside her.

Stan watched her cut seamlessly through bustled bodies. She looked like a friend. Maybe the best friend Stan’ll ever have. A smile on her freckled cheeks with a fresh cig safe behind her ear. She felt like Bill, in a way. Brash confidence, a familial protection to her that felt like he hadn’t done anything to earn it. But she was aware, observant in a way Bill had never been. She’d grown up into what he could’ve been if he had understood.

The door swung open with a harsh squeak, and Mike looked up from a beer to wave them over. It was concerningly early for a drink, they were the only occupied table, but Stan couldn’t really judge at this point. There was another man sitting with Mike, a huge bulking figure of muscle and weight. His peacoat was stretched across his skin, and his flinch from the door was all Stan needed to see.

Stan tensed under Beverly’s arm, the makings of a trap, a snare closing around his throat like a linking collar. She squeezed his elbow to her breast, digging his thin arm against her own until he looked down to her steady gaze.

“Trust me,” She said, like it was that easy, like it wasn’t an open opportunity to a death sentence. But… Beverly Marsh had not failed him yet.

Stan let his foot slide forward, carrying them both to the table.

“Sure.”

 

\-----

 

The man didn’t look at Stan right away, purposefully keeping his eyes on his drink. Jesus, Stan didn’t know if it was legal to put whiskey in a glass that big. It suited him, strangely enough. Big guy, thick beard, big drink. The man was almost a tower; Stan bet he could loom over the best of them.

He didn’t look like he _would_ though. He’d smiled so… cutely when Bev had put a cig behind his ear with a kiss to his cheek. It shouldn’t have fit his face so well, but the man was a teddy bear. His eyes were thin, but soft in his sockets. His posture was small for all his mass, like he didn’t feel comfortable with how much space he took up. He wasn’t unattractive by any means, but he didn’t look like he’d agree with that. He only looked up once Stan was seated, and even then his eyes landed on his shoulder.

“Stanley, Benjamin,” Beverly greeted, “Benjamin, Stanley.”

“Ben is fine,” He said, voice surprisingly soft, almost high, “Nice to meet you.” He didn’t offer a hand, but nodded with a wide smile.

Stan nodded back, “Stan is fine too, or Stanley. Beverly really just says whatever she wants,”

Ben laughed at that, a breathy snort, “Yeah, well, welcome to the club.” He nodded to the bar, “Can I grab you a drink?”

“Uh, water is fine,” Stan had drank more in the morning than he’d had in years. Ben smiled again, and slid out of his stool to approach the counter top. Stan turned to Mike, “Was this all a step up for a date?”

Mike laughed, “No, he’s just that nice,” He took a sip of his beer, “Polite too. It’s almost unnerving. Too nice for his own good.”

Stan almost told the pot it was rude to call the kettle black, but Ben returned a moment later with his glass. Stan sipped the water slowly, letting the other three lull back into conversation without him. He watched Ben carefully. Ben noticed, nowhere near the poker face Beverly or Mike had; but he didn’t seem to mind.

Glasses slowly filled the table, mapping out the empty drinks between them. Stan finally joined in on the second round and nursed a beer as Mike and Bev and Ben threw back like champs. His low tolerance wasn’t anything he wanted to risk in a public place, but it felt a little like the college he’d missed out on.

He’d enrolled a single year before coming to close to being caught, a Sentinel professor had been handsy and Stan was too scared to say anything. He’d even been bonded, had a pretty little thing who sat in his office. But kept going on about how bright Stan was, wanted a side piece to his side piece. Stan couldn’t say if it was his status that had attracted him, but he didn’t want to risk finding out. One year into an accounting degree. He took another gulp.

The mood had shifted around Stan into something somber. He’d been too lost in thoughts of cruel older men to notice how tight Ben was holding his mug. Beverly leaned close, and Stan felt himself lean in too.

“Did you have to go today?” Beverly asked, voice low despite the empty room.

“Yeah,” Ben admitted, “I was just, y’know, I,” He drank, “Yeah. I did.”

Stan didn’t know what that meant. But Mike and Beverly’s face didn’t make it seem good.

Mike turned to Stan, “Ben works at an architect firm, putting the rest of us to shame, but things can get… loud?” He looked to Ben for confirmation, and was met with a quick nod, “Loud, so he has to go to the Center.”

Stan’s spine locked up at the mention of the Center. He looked at Ben who was looking into his drink again.

“There aren’t enough guides to Sentinels,” Ben began, “So the ones who are still on a waitlist have to balance out by booking sessions.”

“There’s a waitlist?” Stan asked.

“Huge one,” Ben huffed, “It’s… you have to be compatible and important enough. Especially in the city. Too many of us to all be paired. They have a lottery system based on merit, wealth - though they say that has nothing to do with it - and priority. You’ll never see a CEO without one, but a bank teller is probably out of luck. So the bank teller joins the waitlist from when they’re a kid and stays on it until they become ‘lucky’.

“It’s almost like courting, if courting meant horribly awkward speed dating with children half your age. Guides get trained until they’re fit for service, and once they are they go off of the list of who is going to be tested for compatibility. Once they know if you’re a match you… take them home. Like a pet. A self aware pet.” Ben took laughed like any of that was supposed to be funny, normal, in a sick way it was, “I’m on it, and high up the list by some freak chance, but I still need sessions.”

The word struck something wrong in Stan, something foul, “What the fuck is a session?” Stan’s throat was going dry, jaw clenching at the guilty look on Ben’s face.

“Stan - “ Beverly cut in, trying to diffuse the situation. Ben seemed so nice, but he - he -

“No,” Ben finally spoke, eyes wide, “It’s not, shit, no, Stan it’s not that. Whatever you’re thinking it’s not… it’s, like - training. Guides don’t usually know how to ease someone on instinct, and Sentinels who aren’t bonded need a guide to function; so they pair you up. It’s like, a therapy session almost.”

Stan’s jaw didn’t unclench, but that wasn’t nearly what he’d feared. There were kids in the Center, almost all kids.

“It’s still, it’s awful, but,” Ben sighed, and swirled his mug between his hands, “There’s this guy there, tiny as shit - I almost thought he was a kid at first. But he sure doesn’t talk like one,” A smile cracked across Ben’s face again, it suited him better than the stormy look from a moment ago.

“We’re compatible,” He continued, “At least it feels like we are. I get assigned to him every time. He’s funny, which, I don’t know how you can be in there. But he is. He smiles sometimes, which, God he really looks like a kid when he does that. A real brat.”

Stan didn't speak for a long moment, staring at Ben staring at his drink, "You mean he's happy there?"

"Oh, God," Ben laughed, "No. No fucking way,"

Ben threw back the rest of his glass, Christ, that must've been his fourth by now. Stan was losing track.

"But," Ben began, cutting through the weight at their table, "He looks like he wants to kick my ass. Like he's still alive in there." He didn't wave for another round, "I keep going because I want to make sure he's okay enough to still be angry. Okay enough to make fun of me a little and smile when I don’t get mad at him for it."

"They have a collar on him," Ben admitted.

"What?" Stan asked, stunned. He watched the way Ben fiddled with the cigarette behind his ear. Would the suffocating metal stay on Betty?

"They do it to the 'difficult' ones. All the rog - older guides - wear them. They don't trust them enough not to hurt someone."

Stan thought of the quarry, of Gretta, "A guide can't hurt someone." The lie burned on his tongue.

Ben looked at him, eyes startlingly clear for how much whiskey was sloshing in him, "C'mon Stanley," He smiled, "We know they're the strong one."

 _They're_ sounded a lot like _you're_

Stan changed the subject, desperate for a segue out of the knowing look on Ben's face, "You mean like a shock collar?"

"I think so," He winced, "It went off, once, first time I was there."

"Ben -" Mike started,

"It looked like they were trying to kill him. I'd had a headache. Grabbed my head, I think. But they thought he did it."

Beverly squeezed the back of Ben's neck, trying to soothe him through whatever he was seeing. Stan's ribs ached. He pinched them until that hurt more.

"He just shook," Ben continued, "Wheezed and shook like air wouldn't get into his lungs anymore. I asked them to stop. Yelled at them to, but I guess they thought he was doing that too. I wasn't helping him. I tried, but I couldn't. He just sat there and refused to cry after words. Bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut and held my hand until I felt better.

“I don’t know if he resented me for it. I hope he doesn’t. He’s nice, funny… I just like to make sure he’s still there; at least where it counts.”

Stan felt for Ben, in a way he hadn't felt for any Sentinel before. Ben felt bad for a kid in their situation, cared about them. “What’s his name?” Stan asked.

Ben’s jaw ticked. He dragged a hand across his face, trying to wipe away the exhaustion that had settled there.

“I don’t know. They don’t _have_ names in there.”

Stan stared at him. Ben tried for a wobbly smile, but it didn’t sit right.

“He goes by 54495.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to noe for reading this over with me and making sure it wasn't too much of a disaster.
> 
> any predictions for what's coming? let me know in the comments or over tumblr at @birdboyinthedeadlights


	6. uşura

Having Ben, Beverly, and Mike around wrapped Stan in a sense of… security wasn’t exactly right. He never felt secure; but guarded seemed close. He knew, realistically, that they could do nothing to stop a link of electricity around his throat. That if a team led by a woman with swamp eyes shattered the door once more; no one could help him.

But he didn’t need them to; expecting that would just lead to disappointment. Stan could, and would, take care of himself. He always had.

They just knew _about_ him. They knew what he was on a level no one had since Derry’s quarry cliff. They all knew, even if he’d never intended to let them, and had this pact not to say a word, never even speaking it aloud to each other. Stan’s paranoia never left his spine, but it didn’t feel like it controlled his time with any of them. His wayward band of mid twenties losers.

He spoke more at work before he would head up to his locked away room to play the films. He still didn’t let Beverly up, but she didn’t push it now that he would sneak down to her if he was sure no one else was there. They’d laugh and she’d flick popcorn at him and Mike would join them and it’d be a bubble of contentment for maybe an hour if he was lucky.

It didn’t feel normal, but it was the most normal he’d been in years.

So, after sampling icee dipped popcorn - disgusting - at Bev’s insistence, when Mike asked, “Can one of you run to the store for more printer paper?” Stan offered without hesitation.

They’d both stared at him, and it took a moment for Stan to realize what he’d done. Stan never offered to run errands, never set foot out of the bricked building until his shift was over.

“Are you sure?” Beverly asked, “I can go, it’s no problem.”

“Yeah,” Mike agreed, “Bev can do it,”

Something tugged in Stan, a dust covered sense of pride; nearly cracking at the pull of indignity.

“It’s right across the street,” Stan mumbled, “It’s two minutes away.”

“Yeah,” Beverly agreed quickly, “But I can go, you don’t need to go out - I mean,” She looked to Mike for help.

“You don’t need to bother,” Mike amended, “Bev can do it,”

“I’m not a baby,” Stan said, and god that felt fucking stupid coming out of his mouth. But, it was true. He - he’d survived this long without them, he wasn’t, “I’m not invalid.”

“Christ, Stan,” Beverly sighed, fingers digging into her freckled temple, “We know that, but,”

“I said I’d do it and I’ll do it,” Stan said.

“... Okay.” Mike agreed, and fished out a twenty for him to pay with.

Stan snatched the bill and grabbed his jacket from the office. He felt their eyes lingering on him as he swung the door open, as he snapped his jacket higher at the chill, as he walked to the crosswalk.

Stan felt a sick chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the biting wind. The reluctance to let him leave, to let him help, was unexpected. Maybe it shouldn’t have been, they were protective of him after all. But, they’d seen him at this worst, at his scared and vulnerable and jarred.

Stan wasn’t fragile, he didn’t need special handling. Stan looked back over his shoulder and caught the gaze of Beverly through the glass walls before she turned away to throw popcorn at Mike.

It felt like eyes on him. And whether friendly or the Center; an eye was an eye.

The weight on the back of his neck faded as he crossed the intersection and into a small shopping pavilion. A Target, Best Buy, and Starbucks with an amalgamation of struggling boutiques were all jammed on top of each other. Stan debated between the Target and Best Buy for a long moment, hugging the wall as he weighed foot traffic to distance he had to cover to find what he needed.

This was stupid. He was getting paper. Stan went shopping every week for food; this was no different. He shook off the weighted looks from Beverly and Mike and walked blindly into Target. Stan had no reason to be edgy or worried about shopping in a crowded store.

Stan was not a guide.

But he was, a voice sneered, clawing pity scraping just behind his eyes. He was fragile. He needed to be protected. He wasn’t safe. He was never safe.

Stan dug his nails into his palms, forcing the bite deeper until the ringing of the pain outweighed the panic in his ears. He didn’t walk any faster, didn’t stutter in his gait. He had no reason to be nervous.

The walk to find the paper took longer than Stan would’ve liked, and he felt a crick forming in his neck from how tense he was holding it to keep from looking over his shoulder ever ten steps. They’d think he was a shoplifter before guide ever crossed their mind at this rate.

Ream of paper in hand, Stan walked calmly to the self checkout. Not because he was nervous that another person would see something wrong, just…

Stan bought m&m’s with Mike’s change out of spite.

Only after exiting the Target did Stan realize he couldn’t just take the m&m’s back with him. They’d melt in his pocket and even if they didn’t Mike would hear them rattling in his jacket.

Stan looked back at the store for a moment, about to see if he could return a single candy on the pretense of ‘I bought it to be rude to my boss/friend because he’s coddling me.’

... Goddammit. 

Stan ripped the package open and poured as many as he could fit into his mouth, crunching like a gremlin outside of Target. It was too sweet, too much at once, but Stan bit down through sugar coated shells with a vendetta.

“Hey!”

Stan choked halfway through his last mouthful. Wheezing around chocolate as and smacking his own chest, he looked up at the voice that came out of nowhere.

“Oh god - I’m sorry, don’t die. Shit.”

Richie stood two feet in front of him, worry on his face mixed with poorly hidden humor as Stan heaved in a breath once he finished dying from candy related asphyxiation. He was bundled more than Stan in a hat that almost completely hid is wild black hair and a scarf tucked all the way to this chin. Though that may be more to do with hiding his face than the cold itself.

Stan stood up to full height, wiped his eyes, and finally processed the boy in front of him.

Oh god, oh fuck. Stan gaped, frozen to the spot. He couldn’t ease his way out of this. They were in the middle of a relatively busy shopping area in broad daylight, it was hardly past noon. He couldn’t make Richie into essentially a sleepwalker and not be noticed; there could be other Sentinels who would pick up on it. Something, anything, _everything_ could go wrong.

Richie averted his eyes, “How, uh, how’re you?”

“Tired,” Stan answered. It was honest enough.

“That’s - you look good. I mean, you don’t look tired.” Stan blinked, stunned, as a pink began to dust across the other’s cheeks. Was he - was he nervous? Richie had no reason to be nervous.

He was almost cute like this. Stan didn’t think that was a word that really applied to the boy before; handsome, sure. But the hesitant smile and inability to speak up didn’t fit at all the persona he’d built for himself. Where was the quick wit and loud mouth that was all over the media?

Richie opened his mouth again, eyes flicking back to Stan only to choke up and look away again. He was holding an alarmingly large Starbucks cup between his hands so tight Stan thought the cardboard would collapse. Neither of them spoke for far too long.

“Uh,” Stan finally began.

"I like your jacket," Richie stammered, lucid for the first time since Stan had met him - and somehow worse with articulating himself. Stan looked down at his more than a little ratty sherpa lined denim jacket. It wasn’t his own style, but it had been ten dollars and was warm. The arms were too long and it was well worn, but it always smelled nice, "I used to have one like it but it got too small and I put it in goodwill."

"I got this from goodwill," Stan answered without thinking. He shouldn't prolong this, he should walk away, but the way Richie's eyes lit up was a little too much for his heart to take.

"No way, are there still cheezits in the left pocket?"

"... No?"

"Oh, damn, okay," Richie almost looked disappointed. God, there had been cheezits when he got it. He was wearing Richie’s jacket. What the fuck.

"Did,” Stan took a moment, “Did you want those _back_?" Stan asked incredulously.

"I mean, who says no to cheezits?" Richie snickered, his cheeks darkened at Stan’s arched brow, "I - no, it's okay, I don't need them."

"Great," Stan said, "I mean, I don't have them anymore."

"Yeah - yeah, I figured," Richie rubbed the back of his neck, "Probably ate them,"

"I certainly did _not_ eat pocket cheezits."

Richie shrugged, "You do you, man."

“I will do me,” Stan quipped.

They both winced at the wording and Richie snickered to himself as Stan stumbled over rephrasing before giving up with a huff.

“It looks good on you,” Richie said, “Fits you well, I mean,”

“It’s huge on me,” Stan argued, waving an arm where only half his fingers could be seen.

“Well it was tiny on me,” Richie laughs, “We just gotta find a normal sized person.”

Stan huffed, “I’m perfectly normal, you’re just a giant.”

Neither spoke again, averting gazes and half starting sentences before giving up and staring at their hands. Stan had been gone for awhile now. He should head back. He should’ve headed back before he even started this weird jilted conversation.

“I’ve gotta get back to work,” Stan muttered, nodding quickly and inching around Richie. He didn’t get more than two steps away before he heard Richie sharply inhale.

"Could I," Richie stopped, seemingly almost startled at how fast Stan turned back to him. _Stan_ was startled at how fast he’d turned back, "Could we get coffee sometime?"

Stan blinked, "What?"

"Right now even,” Richie said, speeding up as he spoke, face getting redder, “I mean, you said you were tired. Coffee wakes up tired people, we could -"

"You," Stan blinked, "You already have a coffee."

Richie looked down at his cup, steam still slipping from the lid, "Oh, uh,"

"Can't get coffee if you already have it," Stan chuckled.

Richie extended his arm abruptly to the left, "Ma'am, would you like a coffee?" The woman aimed at scurried away promptly, but Richie was determined. Asking anyone walking by if they could take the 'caffeinated obstacle' off his hands.

He stopped after the sixth failed attempt. Seemed even a mid level celebrity couldn’t shove steamed beverages off onto strangers. Stan was getting uncomfortable from the attention, the eyes flicking over to them both. People would recognize Richie, even with the hat and glasses and hoodie, there was no way they wouldn’t soon. Stan’s eyes flicked around the pavilion, and landed back on Richie as the taller boy stared at him.

Stan was about to make an excuse, an easy exit about work or anything to get out of broad daylight with a face media followed, when Richie suddenly turned back to him with a confident, “Watch this - _yeet_ ,” With barely a glance, Richie whipped his coffee to a trash can at least twenty feet away.

It splattered to the concrete after barely halfway and was a least a yard off course to the right.

Stan choked on a snort despite himself, as Richie stared in betrayal at his completely failed display of athletics. For a moment, Stan was worried he’d leave it like that; liter spewed across the street with no care. He was famous after all, probably didn’t have to look beyond anything that suited him - least of all anything that was clearly embarrassing.

Richie looked at Stan, back to the cup, and then the ground as he quietly trotted over to the spilled drink, picked it up, and got a foot away before tossing it again with a quiet, " _Yeet_ ," in the recyclable side of the bin.

Stan was too… smitten wasn’t a word he’d accept but, god; he didn’t even think to leave in the clear gap for a getaway. Richie jogged back over, and flicked his hair casually, only slightly skewing his glasses.

"Oh no. I lost my coffee," He said, smiling crookedly at Stan.

"Yeah it's a real mystery," Stan agreed, eyes crinkling around a smile he had no hope of fighting, “But, I do have to go back to work,” He waved the paper ream awkwardly between them, “I was running an errand.”

“Yeah, you work at The Falcon,” Richie nodded, like he remembered Stan at all. Stan didn’t let it show on his face that Richie wasn’t supposed to have any idea who he was, “I only ever really see Bev but,” Richie stopped talking, eyes growing wide.

“What?” Stan asked, tensing at the expression that suddenly crossed his face.

“I don’t know your name,” Richie croaked, “Oh my god, I must seem like a stalker, I’m - god, I’m sorry. I _threw a coffee,_ ”

“Yeah, that must’ve been like, six bucks,” Stan said, and Richie laughed at that as he continued to panic.

“Ohhh, yeah, that was a waste. I didn’t even make the shot.”

“So close though,” Stan agreed.

“Thanks, babe,” Richie’s eyes bulged, “Not _babe_ babe, uh, I just,” He finally stopped floundering, frozen like a factory reset. And sheepishly smiled, “I’m Richie. What’s your name?”

Stan debated lying. He could lie.

“Stanley.”

“Stanley,” Richie repeated, cheeks flushing again, magnified from where it rose behind his glasses, “Stanley the Manly.”

Stan squinted, smile pushing through his grimace, “Sure,”

“At the risk of really solidifying my stalker image,” Richie began, “Is there any way I could get your number?”

“I…” Stan hesitated, he’d never given his number out. Mike and Beverly didn’t know his number.

“I mean, I’d rather you were able to send a warning text when I’m about witness you inhaling m&m’s like a demon.”

A laugh startled out of Stan’s throat, “You’re a dick,”

“Dickard Tozier, that’s me.” Richie smiled, and bit his lower lip, “But, I mean, you don’t have to,”

Stan’s throat clogged somewhere between admission and rejection, unable to choose the obvious. His eyes trailed away, a heat dusting his own cheeks down his neck, as he listened to Richie helplessly ramble how Stan didn’t have to and he’s not a stalker and saying he isn’t a stalker this much must make him really seem like one now -

Stan’s eyes landed on a bench back the way he’d came, skirting the edge of the pavilion with a clear view of him.

Mike was hovering beside the bench, watching him. Stan froze in place, staring at Mike, paper nearly falling from his grip before he clenched it violently. Mike caught the dark look that came across Stan’s face and made to walk up to him, posture adapting to someone handling a skittish animal.

Richie trailed off suddenly as Stan took off away from him towards Mike, sneakers loudly smacking the concrete beneath him as he got into Mike’s face.

“How _dare_ you,” Stan sputtered, voice hissing between clenched teeth.

Mike raised his hands, “Stan,”

“No,” Stan grabbed Mike’s wrist, yanking him along behind him back across the street, “How fucking dare you,”

Mike didn’t fight him, let himself be pulled along by Stan. Stan’s blood boiled over at that, at how he allowed it, how he looked at Stan with something too close to pity in his eyes. Stan jammed his key into the projection door, punched the code in, and violently shouldered the hatch door open. Mike was barely inside the cramped room before Stan kicked the door shut behind them.

"This is the same as keeping me on a registry," Stan spit.

Mike, for the first time, had any reaction other that coddling, "Don't say that,"

Stan didn’t let him finish, " _You_ don't tell me what to do, Mike. You don't own me,"

"I never said I did," Mike insisted, anger rising in his tone.

"But you act like you do - "

"What do you want me to do, Stan?" Mike demanded, brows scrunched and hands clenched.

"Just be my friend!” Stan shouted, voice cracking out as his eyes stung despite himself, “Just let - just let me have a _friend_!"

"I _am_ being your friend!" Mike bellowed, the timbre of his voice almost rattling Stan's bones, "You're being a brat!"

"You're not my friend, you're my fucking keeper!"

Mike froze at that, face softening back to that fucking pity all over again, "Stan,”

"I haven't had a friend since,” He sucked in a ragged breath, “I - and I thought I did. But if you think I'm some fragile thing you found and get to _keep_ then you can fuck off. You act like I can’t do anything; like I haven’t fucking lived my life like this the entire time.” The tear tracks cut across his cheeks, hand fisting into his own shirt, clenching the fabric in a shaking fist, “I can handle myself. I don’t need you or Bev or Ben to constantly be watching me like I’m some caged animal that’s going to lash out at any moment. This might be a new thing for you," Stan gestured between the two of them, "Having a guide as a friend, but I know how to take care of myself."

"I lost someone already," Mike corrected softly, "They were just a kid, I could've protected them and I didn't. I don't want to make that mistake again."

"I'm not a kid, Mike," Stan said firmly but not coldly, "And you can't protect me; not when it counts."

Mike looked like he wanted to argue; defend and assure he'd save Stan - that he'd redeem himself. But they both knew it wasn't true. If Sentinels came pounding on the door history would just repeat itself. Stan's shoulders sagged in relief when Mike nodded. 

“I’m sorry.” Mike admitted, hands down by his sides, “I just, I worry about you. There’s almost nothing in this world that isn’t _against_ you and I - we just wanted to be on your side.”

“Then be on my side,” Stan begged, “Don’t act like I belong to you, like I’m yours to protect.”

Mike just nodded. Stan could see the tears flecking off his dark lashes in the low light. He didn’t offer comfort, it wouldn’t be genuine. But he nodded back. They stared at each other, looked at each other.

Stan didn’t doubt Mike saw him as an equal. But if he couldn’t treat him as an equal… Stan would leave. Stan wasn’t going to be owned by anyone, no matter their intentions.

He’d die first.

“Uh, guys?” A voice called from an empty theatre, “Richie is here.”

Stan’s head whipped to the window, and both he and Mike looked down to see Beverly standing with a concerned Richie.

“Hi?” Richie called up, and Stan turned to head back down the stairs.

Mike’s hand reached out and grabbed Stan’s wrist. Stan went to jerk away but Mike held fast. He turned, ready to start yelling again if need be, but Mike’s face wasn’t like before.

“I trust you,” Mike said, “And we’re all here when you need us.”

“I know that,” Stan mumbled, “I’ve always known that.”

“Good,” Mike finally smiled, better suited to his face than any hurt or anger could ever be.

They both came back into the hallway, puffy eyes from their fight. God, Stan hadn’t gotten into a fight with anyone since… he blinked, he’d never been in a fight at all. Too cautious to even try, better to evade, to run.

He almost turned to tell Mike as much, maybe ease the last scraps of tension away from between them, when Richie and Bev rounded the corner. Beverly’s eyes were icy, cold and alert as she approached the two. Stan was about to tell her it was okay, but Mike spoke first, “C’mere, Bev,” He said, kind smile on his face, and jutted his chin for her to follow.

She hesitated a moment, looking between the three boys, before settling on Stan. She furrowed her brow, but apparently saw what she needed in his gaze and turned away. Richie and Stan were left alone in the hallway.

Stan didn’t have the nerve to let them fall back into silence all over again and blurted out, "You followed me?"

Richie looked diffident, "I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Stan bristled just a bit, leftover prickling behind his eyes at the confession, "I don't -"

"I mean clearly you handled it," Richie laughed, "I thought you were gonna kick _my_ ass at first. You looked almost psychotic. Honestly I was seeing if you needed help hiding the body after.”

Stan took him in, admittedly... smitten.

"Guess this is really the nail my stalker persona coffin?" Richie said hushedly, rubbing his neck again.

"Absolutely," Stan agreed, a soft smile pulling between his cheeks, "Complete maniac."

"A maniac and a psycho," Richie hummed, "Sounds good to me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love two (2) disaster boys who don't know how to communicate.
> 
> what do you think is gonna happen? what do you hope is gonna happen? lemme know in the comments or send me a message on tumblr!


	7. hampitony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy chrysler here's a chapter it's like a miracle but different
> 
> i will reply back to all of these comments if it kills me i love all y'all

“It can’t be safe to have that much sugar,” Stan commented, watching Beverly fill an alarmingly large icee for Richie, “Don’t give him the large, Jesus, that’s huge,”

“That’s what she said,” Bev and Richie both answered, high fiving each other without even looking. God, they’re the worst.

Stan sat perched on the back concessions counter, fingers drumming a dizzy pattern across his khakis. Richie’s eyes kept darting to his hands. He couldn’t seem to settle on one thing; flicking between the icee machine, the lights, and back to Stan’s hands. Stan stopped, and Richie’s shoulders lost a thread of their tension.

Richie turned to Stan, “If you could be any vegetable, which would you be?”

“God, you’re insufferable.” The words didn’t match his tone, mouth quivering into a smile at the casual attention, “What does that even mean?”

“That’s not an answer,” Beverly said.

“Yeeeah, Uris, don’t try to pull a fast one,” Richie drawled, a thick Brooklyn accent dripping into his speech with alarming accuracy yet stereotype, “We wan’ an _shars an’ we wann’em now_!” He jutted his jaw out with a slammed fist to the counter. Stan didn’t flinch at the sudden movement.

“This is stupid. You’re both stupid.” Stan definitely did _not_ smile.

“The kiddo’s holdin’ out, Marshie,” Richie spit, eyes blazing as he elbowed Bev, “He ain’t gonna give us the skin off a grape.”

“Much less a vegetable,” Beverly agreed somberly, a much less convincing and almost mildly Bostonian accent wobbling out.

“Oh my god, carrot, I pick carrot.”

“Now see here, Mister Stanley,” Richie swaggered, pulling a drag from a pantomime cigarette, “That’s a _penis_ plant-”

“- I’m leaving.”

“ _Nooo,_ ” Richie keened, laughing as the voice fell away, “Who will scold my beverage choices?”

“Literally anyone besides Beverly,” Stan answered, “How are you even drinking that? It’s freezing out - ”

A well timed sneeze sprung out. Richie chirped a “Bless ya, boy,” with an encore of the Brooklyn impression.

Richie had become a facet of The Falcon, days blurring into weeks of him wandering through newly repaired glass doors to movies Stan wasn’t sure he even watched.

He wanted to ask sometimes; how he could stand the noise and lights and everything he wasn’t supposed to be able to medically tolerate. Stan kept it to himself, there was no reason for Stan to ask. Richie was, for all Stan was supposed to know, not a Sentinel.

And Stan wasn’t a guide.

So the two boys who didn’t know anything they weren’t supposed to simply orbited around each other with Beverly’s supervision. Quick jokes and quicker glances; never really directly speaking to each other.

“One not-Stan-approved icee,” Beverly announced, setting the cup on the counter, “And a pack of m&m’s.”

“Thanks, Bev,” Richie grabbed the snacks, and looked to Stan with a smile, “See ya, psycho,”

“Maniac,” Stan nodded, tapping his heels against the cupboard as he watched Richie walk away.

Beverly’s eyebrows slowly rose, an exhausted expression on her face as she said, “My god, you two are gross.”

“What?” Stan asked, still looking at the door that swung shut.

“You have _nicknames_ ,” Beverly sighed, “It couldn’t be gayer or cuter if you tried and I’m offended that I have to witness it.”

Stan’s lips pursed, refusing the acknowledge the prickling in his cheeks as he mumbled, “Shut up,”

“It’s, again, nauseating. I shouldn’t be subjected to interactions that pure,” Beverly slipped her cigarette between her lips, letting it wag up and down as she jutted her jaw. Stan thought about asking if it was a metaphor. She’d punched him last time he had. He barely held his tongue.

“We’re just - _he’s_ just here. I don’t know him.” Stan didn’t. Not really. He just - he’d googled him. He only knew what anyone else did.

Except for the Sentinel sized elephant in the room.

“He clearly wants to know you,” Beverly offered, her dramatic disgust was gone.

“Or he’s playing us to get free icees. You didn’t charge him for that last one.”

Beverly snorted, freckles on her nose scrunching when she smiled at Stan, “His master plan has come to fruition.”

She had been edgier initially, a cold fire in her eyes when Richie asked for him by name. But, after the first jilted interaction of the trio, she turned to Stan and had said, “He’s harmless,” Everything was much more casual with the Beverly Marsh seal of safety in place.

“Christ, it’s cold. You’re right, I don’t know how Richie drinks anything frozen.” Bev hissed, burrowing deeper into her hoodie, “I thought LA was supposed to be warm. This is bullshit,”

“Yeah, this city has a way of always letting you down,” Stan agreed, snapping his jacket up to his neck. It was unnaturally cold lately, and the old building didn’t do anything except somehow make it worse. Stan had grown up in Maine, used to frigid mornings and nose numbing nights; but that didn’t make it suck any less.

Stan paused as he watched Beverly shiver. He had no idea where she was from. Granted, Beverly didn’t know the same for him, but it felt like he should. They were friends, right? Friends knew those things. Stan knew how to make friends… Stan knew how a five year old made friends. How different could twenty years make it?

“Was it not cold where you’re from?” He tried, voice cracking as he lilted the question too hard.

Beverly looked at him, a soft surprise on her face, before flipping her curly bangs dramatically, “I have no origin, I travelled on the wind.”

“See, that just makes me think you’re from Idaho,” Stan mussed, “Or some other lame state.”

“Do I strike you as the Idaho type?” Beverly asked, leaning on the counter next to him, hip resting against his knee.

“You strike me as the single teenage rebel in Idaho type,” Stan explained, “The one who dyed their hair and gave themselves tattoos. Ran away the second they got a chance.”

Beverly’s face twitched, a small tick, but Stan felt he’d struck something he shouldn’t have. She smiled at him, “Well that’s not completely off,” She hopped up on the counter, eyes far away as she went on, “It was Oregon, just outside of Portland. No hair dye, but I’ve got… four mildly regrettable tattoos. Ran off to the big city.”

“Portland’s a pretty big city,” Stan said.

“Didn’t feel far enough,” Beverly hummed, “What about you?”

“Maine,” Stan offered, “Small town, insignificant.”

“Did you come to the city to make it big?” Beverly joked.

Stan smiled at that, “Oh, yeah, name in lights.”

She didn’t say anything else. Neither did Stan. Both were content to just sit in each other’s space as the muffled movie echoed around them.

The moment felt settled, and Stan nearly began to doze off before Beverly spoke once more, voice soft, “He seemed jumpy.”

Stan knew who she meant.

“A little, yeah,” Stan agreed, “Probably all the sugar you’re giving him.”

“I’m an employee, not his mom,” Beverly laughed.

“Yeah, well,” Stan grimaced, “It doesn’t help,”

“There’s not much that helps that sort of state,” Beverly offered, unsaid advice dangling between them.

Stan felt the tension crawl up him, settling between his vertebrae, “It’s a shame,” He finally said, voice lower than a hush.

“Stan,” Beverly began, but stopped herself. Stan felt her eyes on him, clear eyes cutting within his peripherals. Stan didn’t know if she found what she was looking for, but she spoke again. “He adores you.”

“That’s a little bit of an exaggeration,” Stan’s fingers began to drum again, the beat had no rhythm, “He’s just nice. He’s a nice guy.”

“He adores _you_ ,” She pressed, “He knows _nothing about you_ , and he comes every day.”

“He likes-” _what Stanley is,_ “Everyone. He’s just friendly.” Richie liked the guide. Knew him on a subconscious level that Stan prayed would never surface into awareness.

Beverly looked like she wanted to argue, but didn’t push. She hopped off the counter, and stood between Stan’s knees. His eyes were helpless but to meet her’s. She smiled, almost sadly, and  whispered, “You haven’t helped him in weeks. You haven’t done anything but be yourself. And he still shows up. He likes _you_ , Stanley Uris. Not whatever you think he selected from you.”

Stan didn’t say anything to that. She knew what he was worried about; what he was sure about. But insisting it wouldn’t change the way here eyes looked at him. Beverly couldn’t _feel_ what he was the way Richie could. Stan couldn’t sway or soothe her on a sensory level. She knew Stan as just Stan because she couldn’t possibly see deeper than that.

Richie could - whether or not he was aware that he was. He… _liked_ Stan only because Stan’s entire genetic build was compatible to Richie’s own. Stan had an empathetic pull that could influence and steady Richie’s own heightened sensory capabilities. There was nothing romantic or friendly about it, it was just… what it was.

Stan looked at the wall, where an orange poster crookedly sat.

_REPORT ROGUES_

There was no room for anything else.

 

\-----

 

Beverly’s voice rattled around Stan’s head with every dragging step he took home. She’d offered him a ride, but Stan didn’t want to stray from his routine. Had to keep his own system in place of blending and being incredibly normal. Also, her bike was scary.

The Center loomed above him, the deep shadows of the setting sun casting the steel monster in a menacing glow. Stan didn’t look directly at it, but could feel it as if it were dragged along his chill bitten skin. Impossible to ignore.

Stan was afraid he was becoming too comfortable. His friendships had lowered his guard; just _talking_ to Richie was a risk Stan wouldn’t have taken a month ago. Christ, he _hadn’t_ risked it a month ago. Being invisible didn’t involve Richie or his magnified glasses or the way his shoulders bunched when he laughed.

That train of thought needed to stop right now. Stan physically shook himself, biting his lip violently as he turned the padlock to his apartment. Piper cooed in greeting and Stan trilled back as he pulled his jacket off.

He made himself a sandwich of slightly stale bread and peanut butter. Piper hopped next to him until he held out his hand for her to climb up.

“You’re gonna need to fly soon, babylove,” He hummed, “Spoiling you with this Stanley chauffeur service.”

She nipped his earlobe and he took it for answer enough. An especially rigid corner of his crust was ripped off and crumbled until he had a pile of crumbs in his palm. Piper and him ate together on his cot.

“You’re all I need,” Stan sang, a senseless little tune, “All I’m ever gonna need,”

Piper nipped his ear again.

Nothing about Richie was worth the risk of capture. Being selfish would just lead to being locked away in a tower like an old fairytale; except no one would come for him. Stan’s story was one of survival, of evasion and avoidance and detachment that would open the door to unfound peace that his birthright didn’t allow.

But his chest ached at the thought of it. After he’d allowed himself a taste - now it was impossible to resist. Every day he laid his neck out for the guillotine, risked everything he’d worked for to stare at a boy for five minutes. He looked over to a small box beside his cot, full of faded and worn road maps. Each sheet was coating in a self made language of hieroglyphics, stores to avoid, streets to walk, places to hide.

Stan could leave. Right now. He suddenly sprung up, grabbing the single duffel bag he owned. Piper squeaked indignantly at how she jostled from her perch on his shoulder. Stan grabbed clothes, packaged food, and Piper’s birdseed; shoving them all into the worn canvas bag. He could go. He should go. He _needs_ to _go._

Stan stared at the box of maps.

Richie’s laugh echoed in his ribs.

Stan methodically unpacked the bag.

 

\-----

 

Richie was already at the concessions stand when Stan finally gathered the nerve to wander down. Stan knew when he’d be there - roughly, at least - since he always showed up for a movie around the same point in the day. The genre didn’t matter, just that it ended up being a matinee right around noon. With only six showings a day max, he wasn’t hard to track.

Stan had stayed up in his tower for longer than his time slot allowed. Richie should be gone, off to a movie he paid… god, he really paid too much for them. The concessions alone had to add up astronomically.

Previews had just wrapped up when Stan began to shuffle down the steps. Richie had mentioned once that they were his favorite part. Something about trying to guess the twists and relationships. His face had lit up when he’d said it. Stan always tried to make sure he was on his way before the first rating guide would come up. He was just… being polite. That was all.

But Richie wasn’t sitting three from the left in the row behind the wheelchair seating. He hadn’t told that one to Stan. Stan had just seen him always sitting there whenever he - whenever Stan looked through the projection window. It was purely for safety; keeping a head count. Richie always put his feet up on the bar in front of him and slouched until his shoulders nearly brushed the bottom cushion. Stan didn’t know how someone that tall could fold up like that, but he wasn’t about to ask. Richie would know he’d been watching him.

So Stan watched Richie stand at the concessions counter with a bemused Beverly. He already had his m&m’s and icee. The cup was dripping condensation down into a ring around the faux marble counter, the top layer of frozen treat beginning to crystalize as all the liquid sank to the bottom. It had been a fair bit since the drink had been poured.

Richie had been waiting for him.

The fact that the thought didn’t send a jolt of suspicion down Stan’s spine was almost more concerning than the suspicion itself would’ve been. Richie no longer - at least in the subconscious - posed a threat. A flinching pain beneath his ribs had been replaced with an almost gentle tug; a soothing feeling. A guide to hi - a Sentinel. A very specific Sentinel.

But a Sentinel nonetheless.

Stan let the edge of his nail dig violently between his ribs beneath folded arms. No flinch crossed his face, but the easy pull faded away as a drop of blood bloomed against the fibers of his shirt. He barely kept the influence out of his voice when he said, “The previews already started,”

“Yeah,” Beverly agreed, leaning further against the counter and looking up at Richie, “What’s holdin’ you up, sport?”

“I just,” Richie made a vague gesture to a carton on the counter. The register had blocked it as Stan approached, but he could now see it nestled between Richie’s palms - not quite touching, almost guarding.

Stan looked to the carton. Back to Richie. Beverly. Richie. Carton.

“Well this is riveting,” Beverly cut through the silence, “But Mike needs help with the movie documents. The documents for the movies, you know, very real. Perfect timing, Stan, truly.”

And without a chance to cut in; Beverly was gone. Stan was just out of arm’s reach, but he was alone. He was alone with Richie Tozier for the first time since… the beginning. Even in the plaza there’d been people everywhere. He’d been too visible to make the situation resolve itself.

But he could now.

Stan looked at Richie, eyes moving slowly. Not being a threat with an audience was very different from not being a threat _alone_. The push was aching beneath his tongue, the desire to send him away without consequence felt… wrong. Guilt ridden.

There was no room for anything else -

“ _Soup_!” Richie blurted, then covered his eyes with a groan.

Stan looked at the carton again and watched as Richie seemingly begged for death. It looked, admittedly, hilarious. And Stan pursed his lips to hide a smile for Richie’s sake. He didn’t move closer, but he didn’t send him away.

Eventually, Richie seemed to gather his confidence again. He spoke with an overly level voice, eyes staring a thousand yards ahead, gravely serious, “I brought you soup.”

“... Why?”

“You’re,” Richie gestured vaguely around the empty lobby, “You said you were cold. And you sneezed. I - there’s a deli down the block with good soup. Ten outta ten soup,” He cut himself off with another groan, but less like he was contemplating running into traffic.

“That’s,” Stan didn’t know what that was. No one had ever gotten him… soup. Except his mom, when he was little and would come in from snow days, “Thank you, Richie,”

Stan was almost worried he’d eased him with how the other boy’s shoulders went slack. The name rolled easy off his tongue, like it belonged there. Richie seemed to think so. Stan tried not to think about he’d replay it in his head and whisper it to Piper that night.

Richie didn’t step closer to him, but slid the soup to the edge of the counter. It was still just out of reach, barely a step, but Richie stepped away to lean on the counter. It was calculated, Stan didn’t doubt Richie’s perceptiveness, but it didn’t hold any ill intent.

Stan stepped forward, picked up the soup, and hopped up onto the counter. Richie smiled with a soft surprise, Stan didn’t let his gaze stick to it. How it felt warmer than the steaming carton between his palms.

They sat for a long moment, Richie’s nervous energy radiating into Stan, before Stan opened the lid. A thick, rich broccoli and cheese greeted him. Stan dove into it with much less tact than he probably should’ve had.

Richie seemed to settle into his bones, calmer now that his gift had been given. Stan had read about courting once, how Sentinels would woo guides and guides were free to do the same. Everyone was on equal ground to offer love and companionship. Old black and white movies would show nervous Sentinels in knit jerseys offering to lasso the moon for shy guides in bathrobes. Things seemed sweet back then. Softer. Richie looked soft in the fluorescent lights.

Stan ate the soup as Richie began to babble, staring down at the checkered tiles that danced beneath them. The quick drawl of stringed together stories was enough to make Stan feel like he was floating, like he was safe. He didn’t need to look at the boy and risk being pulled deeper into the delusion.

But, he could pretend. Just a little.

But soon the soup ran out. The dialogue between them began to be cut into further by the one in the movie. The icee was nothing but a flat soda.

Richie’s fingers drummed along the counter, palms curling around the edge as he rocked on his heels. He didn’t look like he wanted to move, didn’t want to leave the odd little oasis they’d created once more. Stan didn’t either, but Richie had finally paused. He looked to Stan, as if waiting for his excuse to walk away and leave Richie behind. Stan wasn’t sure he wanted that.

“I know about you,” Stan said, and nearly jolted as violently as Richie since that was the _worst_ way to start a conversation between two very specific people with very specific secrets.

“What?” Richie demanded.

“I mean,” Stan flustered, “I know about SNL.”

“Oh,” Richie said, but the tone was too soft to be the relief Stan was expecting. “Okay.”

“Are -” Stan paused, trying to decide if searching for eye contact would be wise; he didn’t want to… to ease him. He liked just _talking_ to the boy who never seemed to run out of things to say, “ - Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Richie clearly lied, “Yeah, it’s just,” He blew a raspberry and began to drum his fingers faster, eyes flitting.

“I don’t believe the rumors,” Stan offered, voice barely a whisper.

Richie stilled. Stan nearly swore. How fucking stupid could he get? The drug rumors started because people didn’t think he was a Sentinel which _Stan_ wasn’t supposed to think either.

But the fragile, “Really?” That slipped out of Richie stopped any backpedalling Stan could even begin to work out.

“I mean,” Stan began, voice over exaggerated in question, “I haven’t seen you shooting heroin between your alarming levels of sugar,”

“ _Excuse me_ , you’re the one who eats candy like you need an exorcism.”

“Fuck _right_ off,” Stan giggled.

A remarkably easy laugh echoed between them and Richie’s posture rocked back into the soft relaxation is was before. “Thanks,” He began, “It’s not true. The drug shit. But, y’know, TMZ isn’t keen on getting told their sweet gossip isn’t really accurate,”

Stan hummed agreement like he had any idea what it was like to be stalked by people who knew nothing about him but wanted all of his personal information to be dissected for the world’s pleasure and use.

… _huh_.

Stan couldn’t say anything about it beyond a hum. Didn’t want to question it further and help them both dig Stanley a grave. Too many leaps in logic were possible, too many variables. If his hesitation showed, Richie didn’t comment on it.

“Saturday Night was fun,” Richie said, “Really fun. Fucking amazing. But… I dunno, I wasn’t cut out for it. It was a lot. Stress, pressure, other things successful people bitch about. I was excited to be the noticed one at first; sorta the breakout star deal. Big shit was coming my way, but - it, fuck, it just swelled up on me.

“I had this, like, ball. That was me. The ball, I mean,” He looked to Stan, hoping anything made sense. Stan nodded for him to continue, “The ball had always been rubber. Bounced back no matter how hard I dropped it, threw it even. So when shit got good I would toss it up, reach higher, knowing it would be okay. It’d bounce back up.

“Except, one day, I - it wasn’t right. The way it’d move. The way I’d move. I couldn’t adapt like before, like I’d trained - like I’d made myself adapt. I was like a water balloon now. And I didn’t want to get thrown anymore

“But it wasn’t an option anymore. I had to keep throwing my water balloon higher and higher into the air until I just,” He swallowed hard, “I couldn’t catch it. And it exploded at my feet.”

Stan blinked once, twice, until the prickling behind his eyes went away. It didn’t, but he would pretend until it was true. Richie looked flayed open, guts spilled across the floor from his burst balloon. He sucked his upper lip between his teeth, tugging the flesh until the skin around it went white. Stan wanted to pull it from his bite, press his thumbs along Richie’s brows until the tension there ebbed away.

He didn’t; but he did rest a hand between them. He hoped the gesture looked as big as it felt.

Richie finally released his lip and looked down at the hand between them. The corners of his mouth quivered and tugged as his eyes widened a hair. He looked at Stan’s face and Stan didn’t let himself look away, though he didn’t meet his eyes. Richie slid the icee and m&m’s away and perched on the counter next to Stan.

“You’re sitting in a puddle,” Stan said, nodding at the ring of condensation that was now most assuredly under Richie’s ass.

“I’m mopping up my mess, be grateful,” He answered. Stan snorted, rolling his eyes at Richie’s responding grin.

 _Why_ _Me_? Stan thought desperately. Begging for any answer other than the obvious. Any reason at all that Richie could identify beyond a gut feeling Stan knew was involuntarily there.  

He settled on, “Why The Falcon?”

Richie blinked, he’d spaced out for a moment, gazing at what might’ve been either Stan’s curls or the _It’s A Wonderful Life_ poster just behind him. “Oh, uh,” He shrugged, “I came here a lot as a kid. I grew up around here, though I guess you read that while googling me,”

“You make it sound so invasive,” Stan whined.

“Oh, sorry, when you were looking up my information in an international database,” Richie amended with a smirk, Stan was gonna smack him, “But I came here a lot growing up, as a kid mainly. It’s not exactly a hot spot, so I figured I could avoid anyone who would be lurking outside of the usual spots for me and catch a break,” He reached into his bomber jacket and pulled out a small tube connected to his keys. With a click it opened to spill out small earbuds into his palm, “I’ll be honest, I usually just eat my snacks and then sleep. Just dull the sounds a bit, low lighting, surprisingly comfy chairs. It’s the best part of my day.”

“That’s adorable,” Stan said before he could think to hold his tongue, but Richie just laughed.

“Well, I mean, being scolded about my dietary habits is slowly becoming the _best part_ of the best part of my day,” He grabbed the cup and sloshed the melted icee around in it, “Looks like you won this round, Uris. No huge sugar drinks for me,”

Stan wanted to point out the m&m’s still there, but what came out was, “I didn’t make you sit with me,”

Richie smiled, and put his hand beside Stan’s own. Not touching.

“Where else would I rather be than with a psycho?”

But close.

“Maybe with a maniac.”

Close enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhh this one hurt to write. lemme know what you think of my two (2) special boys. what do you think is coming?


	8. fokotsa

It was a cold morning, the windy chill still refusing to break, when Stan saw Ben Hanscom on the street. He’d never seen him outside of the bar, not even at The Falcon. Then again, not every Sentinel was borderline psychotic like Richie.

It wasn’t so much _seeing_ Ben that startled Stan, like when a teacher was seen in a grocery store by their student, but where he was going.

Stan had been forced to go off route that morning, tilting off his axis of routine for the sake of Piper. She’d been out of food and Stan needed to find a store open early enough to accommodate his early shift. He’d be working a double today, some festival where other coworkers would be lurking around the tiled floors and carpeted halls. Stan didn’t have to actually talk to any of them, safely tucked away in his projection room; but the pet stores would all be closed by the time the last film ended. Piper was easy enough to appease in the morning when he offered her a few blueberries, but that wouldn’t last.

So Stan had looked up the only pet store in Los Angeles that opened at the ungodly hour of six in the morning. It had taken him north, and directly along the streets of The Center.

Stan hadn’t wanted to go. But Piper needed food and nothing was more important than her. Besides, only a guide would be scared of a building. A monstrous building the split the sky above Stan.

Stan had readied himself for the walk, had set his sights blindly forward and an easy stroll that looked neither interesting nor suspicious. He could do this.

But as Stan rounded the corner to the massive glass entryway Ben stood staring at the doors.

Stan didn’t want to say anything, draw attention to himself, but Ben turned at the noise on the  nearly empty streets and smiled at him. It looked pulled, tight, so unlike the bar. Stan approached him, if only to not seem odd for ignoring a direct greeting under what must be so many cameras.

“Hey, Hanscom,” Stan said, god, Ben looked worse up close.

Despite his weary state, there was no lack of kindness as he answered, “Hi, you’re up early.”

“Or I stayed up unreasonably late,” Stan countered, hands jammed in his pockets to hide how violently they were shaking. He’d never been this close before. He could see the lobby from here. Phantoms in pewter uniforms shuffling around with only a slab of glass between them and one of their targets.

Stan looked back to Ben, but didn’t let himself angle away from the doors like his body was begging him to do.

“Well, shit,” Ben laughed, “Can’t argue with that,” Stan watched him look back at the building, brow heavy. His throat clicked, and he spoke again without turning back to Stan, “Look, I, uh,”

“Session, right?” Stan answered, face a molded into a casual enthusiasm, “That’s great, man. I hope you get yours soon,” Just getting one, a guide, like they weren’t people. They weren’t here, “Hope that little guy still likes you, makes your life easier,” A chuckle scrapped out of his throat, “You know how fragile they can be! One smack and they’ll just crack -”

“ _Stan_ ,” Ben said, horror bleeding into his face. Empathy. He had no poker face.

No. nonono, that’s not how that goes. Ben should know better. Ben was going to get them in trouble. He was going to get them _caught._

“What? Were you keeping him a secret?” Stan slouched sheepishly with a matching grin as his nails made bloody crescents along his palms, “I get it, I get it, don’t wanna let any ladies know about him. The boy ones are weird, right? Be easier if you could just f - “

Ben grabbed Stan’s arm with a force that matched his build but not his disposition. He hauled him away from the doors, and towards a corner of the entry pavilion. The whole area was littered with artificial flowers and soft white cone lighting. Nothing that would set off a budding Sentinel who didn’t know how to tune their sensory input.

Stan was pushed just shy of a shove onto a granite bench. Ben stood above him, towered over him, and Stan’s airway shut. He didn’t - he didn’t know what was going to happen here. Ben looked enraged, possessed, and Stan didn’t know how to handle that side of him. It didn’t seem possible for Ben, to be this angry.

“Ben -”

“- _Don’t_. Just,” The violent shadow over Ben’s eyes fell away as an exhausted sigh fell out of him. He collapsed on the bench next to Stan, giant shoulders falling like buildings around him. Stan didn’t know a man that large could be so small. Stan didn’t like this side of Ben either, who wasn’t a threat but… looked so hurt. Looked destroyed. Stan wanted to reach out, to help.

There was no pull in his ribs, no tug in his chest to do it. He and Ben weren’t compatible, at least not enough. He just… wanted to help Ben because he’s _Ben_. Kind, sweet, oddly but not unwelcomely adorable.

Sentinel Ben Hanscom.

Stan put a hand on his shoulder, no real skin contact with all their layers, but Ben seemed to relax. Not eased, but calmer.

“Do…” Ben didn’t cut him off, let Stan get himself there. Decide for himself, “Do you want me to?”

Ben looked at him with a smile that didn’t match the worry in his eyes, “Nah. It’s okay. I don’t want you to risk anything for me,”

 _But you’ve risked so much for me_.

“We aren’t,” He didn’t want to be too clear on his words, too incriminating, “We aren’t really a good set up. You’re not my type,” Stan winked for effect, but Ben seemed to understand.

“I don’t own you,” He lamented, but his words held weight, “You can do what you’d like,”

Stan blinked at that wording. At how… Sentinel that made Stan sound. “I don’t own you either. I wouldn’t do something to do you without your permission, that’s -”

“If you want,” Ben said again, “Only if you want.”

Stan did want, Stan wanted so bad. To help Ben, to ease him, to just… let Ben feel like Ben again. Ben let his head droop, like an offering of privacy as Stan’s palm slid slowly up Ben’s shoulder until the tips of his fingers, stained with pink from his gouged palms, brushed the hairs along Ben’s nape. He smoothed out until his palm cupped along the vertebrae and gripped firmly. He gave Ben a little shake and, “It’s gonna be alright,” for appearances but could feel the way Ben’s spine unlocked beneath his trembling hand.

They weren’t compatible. It wasn’t strong. Not a push but a nudge. It still felt right. Felt like what he should do. Ben seemed to think so too, not hazy like Richie would be but sharp and clear eyes. He looked up at Stan from beneath his fringe with the first genuine smile all morning. Stan smiled back.

He felt flushed. He felt giddy. He felt alive.

They just smiled at each other long after Stan moved his hand back to his pocket. It was comfortable, to have a friend like Ben. It almost felt like what could’ve been with Bill. Someone who knew what he was, could easily benefit from what he was, but chose silence and risk for the sake of no one but Stan. Who allowed Stan to choose to help him. Who didn’t expect Stan to simply because Stan was genetically capable.

Someone who didn’t even ask Stan to, but allowed Stan the step of offering.

An silly laugh passed between them, compatible only in the sense of caring for each other. There was no attraction between them, but there was trust. Now more than ever. Stan chose to ride this inexplicably _bright_ high instead of lingering on how he’d eased someone on a public street not twenty yards from a prison designed just for him. It didn’t look any different than cheering up a friend, and Stan let himself be calm. Be in the moment. He could spare a moment.

Once Ben seemed to resettle into his bones, Stan asked softly, “Do you want to talk about it?” He didn’t know if Ben _had_ anything to talk about, but people usually did when they made a face like Ben had.

“I haven’t seen him,” Ben answered, scratching his beard thoughtlessly, “54495. I came in for a - a session,” He looked apologetically to Stan but Stan just nodded for him to continue, “They put me in a room with a kid, like an actual kid. They didn’t even look twelve. They called her _promising_ and _workable._ Like she was a better fit since she was impressionable. She didn’t look scared of me, of the whole thing. I can’t tell if that’s worse.”

“Lots of kids are raised to expect it. To welcome it,”

“Yeah, I guess that works sometimes,” Ben sighed, scratching harder, “But I asked for him. Over and over I asked for him. I thought he’d been paired off. He was always too… unpredictable to be sent out. They called him fussy,”

“Bet he loved that,” Stan intoned.

“Oh yeah,” Ben huffed, a weary laugh echoing out of him, “He was - is a fighter. He’s strong. Strongest person I’ve ever seen. Anyway, I wouldn’t go with the kid, wouldn’t let her near me. It felt wrong. So they finally just said they were ‘working with him.’ Managing his temper. And who knows what the fuck that means.”

Stan didn’t like any possibility of what that could mean for 54495.

He said instead, “Well you said it yourself, he’s tough. He’ll be fine. Are you going to see him now?”

“I was gonna try, yeah,” Ben said, “I’ve been here all week but every day he’s unavailable. I said I wanted to bid on him.”

The sound of that, even from Ben, made Stan’s stomach turn, “I thought it was a waitlist,”

“It is, but you can bid,” Ben looked nauseas himself, “It’s not like an auction,” He paused, seemed to think it over, and didn’t bother to continue that defence, “You have to make a case on why you want them. What your benefit will be. It involves a lot of loops and money and a dem… a demonstration of your control.”

“What does that mean?” Stan muttered.

“I don’t know, they’re deliberately vague. But it isn’t good. A lot of people don’t do it, the application cost alone is insane, but I’m worried about him. I’m really fucking worried.”

“Well,” Stan began, “Go see him. I’m sure he misses you.”

“I really don’t think he gives a shit about me,” Ben laughed, voice soft.

“You’re probably the only good thing about his life right now,” Stan admitted, “He probably needs you.”

“But, I’m - “

“You’re Ben. The nicest, probably hairiest, person around. I don’t know what happens in there. But if he can even smile at you for a second then you’re the best thing he’s got. And you shouldn’t take that away from him,” Stan gripped Ben’s neck again, a firm hold that Ben leaned into. He nodded at Stan, and hauled off of the bench with a sigh. The Center cast a shadow over them both, but Ben stared it down. A tower facing a tower, Stan couldn’t imagine standing that tall.

“What were you doing over here anyway?” Ben asked, turning back to him with a quirked brow.

“I needed birdseed before seven in the morning,”

“Yeah, alright, that checks out,” Ben laughed. He nodded and Stan nodded back.

Stan sat on the smooth, textureless stone. He watched Ben walk confidently into The Center. The impossibly tall glass doors sealed behind him and he blended seamlessly into the sea of pewter.

He looked up at The Center. Looked above the ten floors of glass greenhouse paneling and lush greenery with smooth white interiors to where the slate began. The walls with no windows, no way to tell just how many floors there were. Betty was in those walls. 54495 was in those walls.

Stan wasn’t in those walls. Not yet. Not fucking yet.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, snapped out of his trance, he pulled it out to a text from Beverly.

_If you’re late I’m gonna assume you died. Five minutes, Uris._

Stan checked the time. 6:56, “Shit,” Stan muttered, taking off down the street. He’d get birdseed on his break. He could take an extra five minutes for his lunch. Mike would forgive him after pretending to scold him and Beverly would make a joke that he was finally cool. It wasn’t the end of the world.

 

\-----

 

Stan’s life began to fall apart around one in the afternoon.

He hadn’t had much of a grip on it before; but he’d had a desperate cling to normalcy that carried him twelve years across state lines and into a fragile bubble.

But.

Nonetheless.

The morning had started smoothly enough. Stan was seven minutes late and even with frantically texting Beverly that he was, in fact, not dead; he was greeted with Beverly pouring out an icee for, “My homie, Uris, be respectful. This is a wake.”

Stan told her to clean it up, so Beverly ordered some poor kid named Sage to do it.

“You’re not the manager,” Sage insisted.

“Don’t play that game,” Stan called as he went down the hall, “She’ll fight you,” Stan didn’t know if Beverly would actually fight her; but it was best not to tempt fate.

Stan hadn’t met anyone on The Falcon team beyond Bev and Mike and he intended to keep it that way. The resounding _click_ of the latch behind him felt right, all the noises around him muffled away through insulated and padded walls. The films were one after the other; for the first time since being employed, Stan was actually busy. It was cathartic in a way, mindless work alone with too much to do to feel lonely.

He’d warned Richie about the festival. It wasn’t incredibly well advertised, but it was a horror special so that always drew crowds. Richie probably didn’t want to deal with actual human beings beyond ones who were paid to be there. So there was no reason to go downstairs when everything he’d need was within five feet of him.

Things went smoothly enough, only one jammed reel and a few spills the coworkers Beverly was suddenly commanding had to clean with minimal complaints. Stan even found a moment to look up a pet store that had the birdseed Piper liked.

Stan sat on his stool as two movies played on either side of him. The whirring of the projectors felt soothing, like a white noise. He nearly dozed off just as _The Shining_ was wrapping up in Theatre B.

Stan felt his phone go off in his pocket and braced himself for whatever meme Beverly had found in the ten minutes since she’d texted him last.

_Come downstair_

It was vague, misspelled, and had no punctuation. Stan nearly threw the floorboard door open.

Beverly was pacing in front of the concessions table. She had her jacket on and was nearly gnawing on a cigarette she was barely keeping herself from lighting indoors. Stan skidded to a halt at the joint between the hallway and the lobby. She looked off. Wrong. Something was wrong.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide, mouth tight. She was holding his jacket. Stan didn’t step forward, feet sinking into the faded carpet beneath him.

“Stan!” She barked, cracked voice ricocheting across the walls. A few people looked. Stan’s knees locked. Beverly never drew attention to herself like this, she never drew attention to Stan.

“Wh… what’s going on?”

“Ben’s in the hospital. We need to go,” She finally marched up to him, gripping his arm like Ben had done hours ago, “Now.”

“Ben? What? I just,” Ben had been fine that morning. Stan had made him fine. Stan had _helped._

“Right now, Stan!” She snapped, no warmth in her tone as she pushed them forward, “I can’t drive, you have to, Stan, _focus._ We need to go,” Her hands were violently trembling, her whole body shook. A horrible blend of dread and adrenaline coursed through her. She wouldn’t make it around the block before crashing them both.

Drive. Stan didn’t know how to drive Beverly’s motorcycle, “I don’t know how, I can’t,”

“Shit,” Beverly spit, now in the brisk air of the sidewalk. Stan yanked his jacket on, barely having the second sleeve on before Beverly was tugging them towards the corner, “We’ll - we’ll, fuck, I don’t,”

“Mike has a car -”

“- He’s the one who called me, he’s already there,”

She was scrambling, completely rattled at being caught on the sidelines of a crisis. She’d been collected when Betty had been taken because she was in the moment, adapting, ready. She had no power here, she was helpless.

Ben was in the hospital. Ben was in the hospital and it was bad.

“Taxi,” Stan blurted, “Taxi to the hospital. I’ll pay. I need,” He pat his pockets, he’d left his wallet in the projection room, “I need to grab it, I’ll - I’ll, just call -”

“- Are you guys okay?”

Stan and Beverly whipped their heads around to see Richie standing at the corner. He looked more than a little concerned, eyes searching for their own and keys halfway -

Keys.

“Drive us to the hospital,” Stan said, moving more into Richie’s space than he had ever dared before, “Please,”

“What? Are you hurt? What’s -”

“- Ben, we need to go see Ben,” Beverly begged.

“Who is _Ben_?” Richie asked, but was already following Stan before using his unreasonably long legs to jump ahead and lead the way. The car was discreet, simple, black. A jeep that wasn’t old but not anything close to a top of the line model. The windows were so tinted Stan wondered how he’d see out of them.

They peeled out of Richie’s crooked parallel spot and took off down the road. Beverly was shouting directions, Richie was shouting not to shout, Stan was muttering half apologies but also shouting when Richie nearly slammed into cars.

Stan wasn’t sure Richie had any better idea of who Ben was by the time Beverly and him had dove out of the car before it had fully stopped. There was a young woman at the front desk, her hair was curly and messy, she smiled politely when they approached her, but it twitched when she caught their expressions.

“Hi, my name is Emma. How can I help you?”

“Ben Hanscom,” Beverly rushed, “We’re looking for Ben Hanscom,”

“Okay, well let’s see,” Her demeanor was unnervingly calm, methodical, unfazed by their flushed faces and twitching limbs, “Oh, dear, okay. Well, Mr. Hanscom is in SDR right now.”

“What is that?” Stan asked, looking between Beverly and Emma.

“Sensory Deprivation Recovery,” She answered, voice just a sweet, “It’s a cataclysm that holds Mr. Hanscom until he is normalized out to stable levels. He’s been in there for a few hours now,”

Beverly looked sick. Stan felt nausea clawing up his windpipe, “Can we see him?”

“Well he can’t see you,” She giggled, but her face pinked at her own comment, “Y’know, it’s - I’m so sorry. Yes, you can go up to floor 14. Take a right. You can’t go into the room but there’s a waiting area,”

The two took off before she could scramble up a better apology. The elevator shot up, open design plan showing them the skyline of the city below. Beverly was white knuckling the handrail, Stan kept his hand gently around her wrist. He couldn’t ease her, but he hoped the sentiment was still there.

Mike greeted them in the waiting room, a sparse but lavish room full of soft chairs and tablets instead of magazines. An aquarium wall separated off a playroom with intricate but silent wooden and metal toys. It was clearly a Sentinel only wing. Stan felt an itch along his neck, a suffocating grip that had nothing to do with Ben.

A soft, “You okay, Stan?” Cut through his stifling thoughts.

“Yeah,” He answered, throat tight, “What’s wrong? What happened to him?”

“I don’t know. I just, I’m his emergency contact but his stuff wasn’t on him when he was taken to the hospital. He’s been in there for three hours,”

“So they’re just leaving him in the dark? Are there any actual doctors involved in this holistic bullshit?” Beverly hissed.

“You’re not going to find better doctors than the ones who get put here,” Mike mumbled, “Most important patients and all that. It’s a sensory issue, they said. They won’t tell me what happened since I’m not family but it’s something that requires him to restabilize,”

Stan froze. Eyes wide as he listened. Had he done this? They weren’t compatible; what if he couldn’t help people he didn’t fit. Oh god, oh _god._

He couldn’t say it here. He bit his cheek until is swelled against molars in revolt. Beverly pulled him close and the three sat in a row.

There was a pull cord on the wall across from them. A thin red and black laced cord that stood stark against the dove gray walls. The label above it was just a _g._ Stan wondered where they kept them. If they were locked away behind hidden wall panels or forced to kneel under desks until the cord was pulled and they were dragged out to serve and assist. Stan wondered if they were paid like any other nurse.

Probably not.

Stan closed his eyes instead. Letting the soft bristles and curls of Mike and Beverly’s hair brush his cheeks as they huddled.

They waited.

At half past noon a doctor came to see them. He was tall, nearing his fifties, and wore the same gray that covered every surface. On his left shoulder were the embroidered letters _g H_ , there was text next to it, but Stan couldn’t make that out from where he stood. He looked tired, haggard, and every alarm in Stan’s mind went off. Ben was, Ben was -

“Mr. Hanscom is resting in the next room,” He said, “We removed him from SDR several minutes ago and did standard testing for sensitivity. He is on oxygen, but able to accept visitors,”

“Yes, please,” Beverly said, already starting towards the door.

“If you’d like to see Mr. Hanscom we ask that you abide by SDR reacclimation procedures,” A nurse approached with three smocks, slippers, and medical masks. All of it was a soft pewter gray, “We can’t overwhelm him with things too loud, be that auditory, smell, or visual. Please put these on and we can take you to see him.”

The nurse briskly passed out the uniforms, but lingered on Stan. He glanced up at her to see her coyly biting her lip, a shy twinkle in her eyes. Stan flickered a smile back, and looked away. Her nursing tag read Bella Fernandez. Just below was the same embroidery, but much clearer.

 **g** uide  
**H** andler

Stan didn’t make eye contact with her again. Beverly wrapped an arm around his waist, and she eventually walked away. Beverly squeezed, and let him go with a knowing look. Better to let her huff off with rejection than linger with suspicion.

Ben’s hospital suite, because room was a gross understatement, was larger than Stan’s entire apartment. The machines were embedded into the wall to create a smooth, open, easy to process environment.

Ben, however, was not easy to process. His eyes were sunken deep into his skull, deep rings forming beneath them. He looked pale, and shaken, and Stan couldn’t see _what_ was actually wrong with him. He had nearly every machine possible hooked up to him, but nothing seemed to jump out as, there! There’s the problem! Ben just looked… broken.

Broken but awake as he turned to look at the three of them. He eyes looked pooled with blood as broken vessels freckled around his iris. The oxygens looping tubes framed them, like a morbid painting. They approached him slowly, smiling behind their obscuring masks.

“Wh -” Ben began to cough violently. Beverly rushed to his side with a pitch from the table and held the cup while he drank. Once he took his fill, he let his head drop back against the pillows. Swallowing once, twice, he finally croaked, “What the fuck are you wearing?”

A hesitant giggle slipped out of Mike, filtered through his mask. The whole cotton cover lifted with his grinning cheeks and Stan felt himself laughing too. The three of them nearly shed their uniforms, but decided against it. They didn’t want to get kicked out.

“What happened, buddy?” Mike asked.

Ben flinched, a rage sinewing through his veins as multiple monitors went off behind him. Stan looked around alarmed, but the beeping relented as Ben breathed. It took a little while for him to recover, but he finally said, “They got him,”

Stan knew who _him_ was, the only _him_ Ben ever talked about, “What did they do?” He whispered.

“I don’t know,” Ben wheezed, but there was a wet clog to his throat now, overlaying the scratch from before, “But he, he…” He turned to Stan, looked him right in the eyes as tears pooled at the seam of his oxygen tubes and skin, “He can’t talk.”

No one spoke. No one moved. 

“Was he just hurt?” Beverly offered, “Sick, maybe? You said he’s small, he might just not be eating enough,”

“They did it,” Ben heaved a ragged breath, machines starting to go off once more, “They finally _managed_ him, the _fuckers_ ,”

“Ben,” Mike soothed, “Ben you need to calm down. Please, Ben. Stan -” He turned to Stan before seeming to catch himself, “Please help me, tell Ben to calm down.”

Stan wouldn’t dare to try and ease him in this setting, but he still sat on the edge of the bed beside Mike. Beverly walked around to the other side, hands running through Ben’s hair as he tried to keep himself from sinking or worse.

“Don’t let them put me in that again,” Ben suddenly demanded, “It’s hell, it’s absolute hell, and they don’t let you out until you’re unconscious.”

That sounded… inhumane. That sounded like something they’d do to guides, not their prodigal flock. But Ben’s panic couldn’t be ignored. He didn’t push, but Stan nudged just enough. Ben slowly came back to himself. Stan couldn’t offer him the luxury of more help. Mike and Beverly both kept their eyes off him, like they didn’t notice and continued to comfort Ben. They couldn’t risk anything that would interest any possible surveillance.

“Can you still bid for him?” Stan asked and Mike and Bev looked at him for that, question in their eyes, “Could you bring him home?” Saying _save him_ would be considered politically incorrect.

Ben laughed hollowly, eyes on the ceiling. The blank empty ceiling.

“He’s the reason I’m here,” Ben choked, “They’re gonna kill him.”

“People don’t kill guides,” Beverly insisted.

“But they might kill rogues,” Ben said, “Especially one that tries to kill a Sentinel.”

A buzz that was more of a tinkling hum cut into the room, “Mr. Hanscom?” The walls seemed to speak, “There’s a Mr. Richard Tozier here to see you.”

“... The SNL guy?” Ben asked incredulously.

“I’ll deal with it,” Beverly promised, and tugged her mask down to kiss Ben’s head before tugging Mike out after her, “We’ll be right back,”

The door clicked shut behind them. Stan looked back to Ben.

“She means the SNL guy, right?”

Stan snorted, “Yeah, uh, he’s a patron,”

“Yeah, sure,” Ben wheezed, “That checks out,”

“How do you know he did it?” Stan asked, voice low and easy, “I mean, what even did happen?”

“Asphyxiation,” Ben said quietly, “He uh, I don’t know if you could call it easing, but; he made me stop breathing,”

“Jesus, Ben,”

“He was sad. He was just,” Ben shrugged as his lip trembled, “They brought him in with a bag over his head. No contact or interaction since the ‘procedure.’ He was so fucking sad. I could feel it. He was, I don’t know what they did but he was so upset and scared and I thought - he’s gone. They broke him. They finally did it. And he looked at me and this, this rage came over him. And I just stopped breathing. And even when they were shocking him and beating him he didn’t stop.

“And I know he tried to kill me but I don’t think he even was trying to kill _me_. Just, anything. He wanted to do something. All the guards are Leveled, and he probably weighs eighty pounds, so he can’t touch them. But, me, he could hurt me. So I just,”

 

“You didn’t stop him?” Stan murmured.

“I figured I should let him. I felt like I owed him that. I always egged him on; pushed him to smile or snap at me. Just anything I could so he’d seem alive. I did this to him -”

“- He’s his own person,” Stan cut in, whispering adamantly, “You don’t own him. You never did. He made his own decisions. This wasn’t your fault and it wasn’t his.”

"He stopped himself," Ben said, "He could've killed me. But he didn't. He started to cry, he'd never cried before."

"He was brave," Stan said. Past tense felt more appropriate.

"He really was - is - I... he just cried and stopped and. I think he was screaming. He was trying. But no sound came out."

They didn’t say anything more. Let that hang between them. Ben didn’t deserve that guilt. He shouldn’t have to carry that weight.

The thought of the boy with a bag over his head and no voice made Stan hold Ben’s knee harder. Ben placed his own hand over Stan’s.

The door slid open once more to Beverly and Richie standing in the doorway. Richie looked about four inches too tall for the smock. Ben’s snort at the sight nearly made Stan weep.

“Those Kinky Briefcase sketches were good,” Ben said.

Richie barked a laugh that made them both wince, “They ended up overplaying it. I’m, uh, Richie,”

“So I’ve heard,” Ben smiled, and pushed Stan’s hand off his knee, “Go, I wanna talk to Bev. Entertain the entertainer,”

“He was a chauffeur today, actually,” Beverly cut in, taking Stan’s place on the bed.

The door closed behind him and Richie pulled the mask off before bouncing on his heels. After a moment he said, “That coffee date still stand?”

Stan blinked, “I don’t remember saying it was a date,”

“Yeah, well, I hate hospitals and you need a distraction so let’s go drink shitty hospital coffee while I smoke,”

“Romantic,” Stan quipped, but the flush rose to his cheeks despite himself.

“Yeah, I’m a real catch,” He stopped once he saw Stan watching the door, “Hey, he’s gonna be okay. Bev scared a nurse until she told her what the deal was in layman’s terms. Ben is gonna be outta here tomorrow morning. She wants you to step out, get fresh air, away from people and monitors and needles,” He tapped his elbow against Stan’s own with a wink, “This is practically an arranged marriage, don’t dishonor your Beverly now,”

They found a vending machine and both grabbed a coffee, then headed out to a small park; well, more of a patch of grass next to an A/C unit. Close enough.

“Can’t smoke in the real park,” Stan said as they perched on the raised edge of the street.

“Yeah, yeah,” Richie bemoaned, “Ethics and all that,” He lit his cigarette and took a deep drag.

Stan looked at the smock still hanging off his shoulders, “You know you can take that off, right?”

“Eh, I think it’s flattering, shows off my exposed calves,” He took another drag, “I’m supposed to meet with my agent later. He wants me to quit, so maybe this’ll absorb all the smoke and I’ll be scot free,”

“Smoke clings to hair too,”

"I'm supposed to meet him at two, what time is it now?"

Stan pulled out his phone, "Almost one."

“Well, shit, gimme a shave, Stanley,” Richie laughed a bit at Stan’s _bzzz_ in response, “Maybe I’ll just bail, he’s a handful,” The cigarette was stubbed out onto the pavement, “Wants me more focused, working harder, booking more,”

“Well maybe you just need a break?” Stan offered, “He can’t accept that?”

“Nah, Chase doesn’t make money unless I do. Chase the agent not Chase the bank. Maybe he uses Chase though, Chase at Chase bank. What a rollercoaster,”

“That doesn’t sound like a word anymore,” Stan said.

“Well of course not, he’s a person and/or bank.”

Stan choked on his coffee, smacking Richie on the arm. Richie pushed his shoulder against him, and Stan pushed back. Stan didn’t move away. Richie didn’t either. The two sat, holding their steaming paper cups, Stan’s cheek resting against Richie’s shoulder. Richie’s chin grazing the top of his curls. Knees knocking just slightly.

“Stan, I -”

“- Richie Tozier!” Some yelled, just across the one way street, coming around a fence with an enormous camera.

“Shit,” Richie hissed, but before either could react a blinding flash went off.

“What are you doing at the hospital?! Why are you in scrubs Richie?! Finally overdose?!” The questions were as fast as they were brutal, shutter clicking rapidly as unfiltered white strobed in front of them. A few more joined a moment later, surrounding them. They weren’t on hospital property here, no security was going to come.

“Who is this?!”

“Where have you been?!”

“Look here! Look here! One picture! C’mon, Richie!”

Richie flinched away from a flash and crushed his coffee in his hands. Stan watched in horror as the scalding liquid poured down his arm. How Richie yelped, then then blinked, then didn’t move.

He was completely under.

The flashes didn’t stop but the questions changed.

“What’s wrong?!”

“Are you dead?! Did he die!?”

“Is he a Sentinel?!”

Stan jolted into action at the last one, throwing his own coffee at the nearest camera. When the man collapsed back with a shout, Stan yanked Richie out of the huddle after him. The cameras followed until Stan’s feet hit the polished concrete beyond the grass and yelled, “Hospital! Private property! Fuck off!”

He turned a corner, Richie practically floating beside him, and hugged a wall as a nurse walked briskly by. What did he do? What can he do?

Turn Richie over? Leave him in the ER lobby? Call for help like Beverly had with Greta? Too many choices were flying through his head, none good. None fair. None of this was _fair._

“S-Stanl…” Richie keened, hardly a word. Stan looked up at him, at his watering, scared, empty eyes.

Stan found a closet, crammed to the brim with cleaning supplies and disinfectant. He pushed Richie to the ground, back to a corner, and tried to kneel between his legs. The other boy’s knee’s dug into the shelving beside them, too unaware to adjust himself out of discomfort. Stan threw his own legs around Richie’s limp ones. Straddling his waist as he cradled his face.

“C’mon, Richie,” His voice soft as prayer, “Come back,”

A soft groan answered him.

“That’s it, you’re doing great. C’mon, Richie,” He pressed his forehead against Richie’s own, “Come back to me,”

Slowly but surely, Richie began to blink. First two slow falls of his lids that would hardly rise again. Then more, almost a flutter. It felt like ages until light finally returned to his eyes, but when they did he only looked at Stan.

The tug in Stan’s ribs felt fuller, expanding in his chest to fill empty gaps. Richie stared at him with nothing short of wonder. Stan stared back.

Stan's life began to fall apart.

“It’s you,” Richie gasped, “It’s been you the whole time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, so uh, yikes.


	9. ublažiti

Stan had been twelve when Bill had fallen. He’d gone home once the sun had risen to tell his mom. She’d held him as she’d called the police and then the Denbrough's.

She’d asked him why he hadn’t called the police first. Or gone to the station; it was on the path back home anyway. Stan didn’t answer. He hardly moved.

“Shock,” Officer Gardener had said, “The boy’s in shock. Give him a few hours, he’ll be fine.”

They hadn’t worried about Bill. Not at first. He was clearly a Sentinel after all. Tough kid like that? He was probably sunbathing on the rocks. Gave his buddy a scare for kicks.

It had taken fishing his chilled body from the eastern bank to finally set a panic in their bones. Stan had been there when they found him. They insisted on him pointing out where he’d fallen, ignored when Stan mumbled he hadn’t seen.

Bill had never looked smaller. Never looked more frail.

He’d looked like his father.

Empty eyes boring into Stan’s own. The police had tried to hide him, _spare him_ from the sight. But Stan had seen. He’d seen what he’d done. How he’d let Bill sink.

Stan didn’t know why that came to mind now, trapped in Richie’s lap as the boy’s eyes widened as big as Bill’s. Boring into his own.

But Richie could still speak. Richie could sink them both.

“No,” Stan whispered, still unable to look away from Richie’s wide gaze, “No, I -”

“- It’s been you this whole time, how did I not...”

Stan shook his head violently. He tried to get off of Richie’s lap, away from the haze between them, “Salts, I used smelling salts, I’m not -”

Richie’s hand shot and grabbed Stan’s wrist, “Where? Where are they?” His grip was firm but not cruel.

“Please, Richie, you don’t understand,” His tone began to warp into a plea, “I’m not - I’m _not,_ fuck,”

“But you are,” Richie’s eyes flicked between his own, unable to settle, trying to process, “You’re a g -”

“ _No_!” Stan’s voice screeched out, a strangled whisper that echoed in the cramped room. Richie’s voice was stolen from him, taken by Stan’s demand.

But Richie was aware of it now. Stan could see the jerking of his jaw as the fought to speak.

“Okay,” Richie finally wheezed, teeth clenched not of his own volition, “I’m sorry,”

A sob bubbled up in Stan, pitiful and mourning. He’d messed this up. He’d found a way to ruin this little circle he’d made. Richie needed to forget him, there wasn’t another option, Stan didn’t have any other _way_.

_you don’t know me_

“No, Stan, no,” Richie gulped, features spasming, scrunching, as if he could force the thoughts out, “Stop it,”

_you don’t remember me_

“St… “ He hesitated on his name, panic striking his features, “Stanley, please -”

_you don’t r e m e m b e_

“Fuck’s sake, _stop,_ ” Richie spit, pressing their foreheads together, a mirror of minutes before; when Stan had done the same, “Please don’t leave me alone,”

Stan faltered, the sweat of Richie’s brow pressed against his curls. The hands in his hair didn’t feel controlling, but scared. Tears swam behind coke bottle lenses.

“Please,” Richie gasped, unable to gather his thoughts despite Stan freeing his hold over him, “I don’t own you. You don’t have to stay, I promise, just - don’t make me forget you again,”

“I haven’t,” Stan began, empty denial on reflex.

“You _have_ , I know you have, I can feel it,” Richie keened, “Like a hole in my chest, I could feel something missing, something erased. I just - please. I don’t want to forget you. Don’t make me.”

“I won’t,” Stan whispered, the tears rising in his own eyes once more, “I won’t, I’m sorry,”

“Don’t be sorry,” Richie said, voice clogged, “You did what you had to do,”

“I didn’t know you,” Stan insisted, “I was - I didn’t mean to,”

“And now?” Richie asked. He pulled back only enough that their eyes could meet. Stan was helpless to avoid it, “What happens now?”

“I don’t -”

“I won’t decide for you,” Richie said, “I can’t. You just tell me what you need me to do,”

Stan didn’t know what he needed him to do. Too many emotions were mixing with too many outcomes. He had fallen so far off his path, off his dependent route; they were free falling now. Richie, beyond a few shuddered breaths, was silent. Patient. Uninfluential on Stan’s decision.

Except he was the influence. He was the domino that had caused all of this. Stan could scream at him. Could hit him.

Could stop his breath. Ease the shuddering lungs into petrification. He’d done it before.

The thought of Richie with those eased eyes dutifully suffocating filled Stan’s stomach with lead.

“I’m not,” Stan began, his mantra the only thing he could be sure of, “I’m not a guide,”

It sounded weak on his tongue.  

“You’re Stanley Uris,” Richie answered. Like that was enough. Like that could be enough.

“And you’re Richie Tozier,” Stan said, letting his forehead fall against Richie’s once more. A soft thump of sweaty curls and worried brows. His hands found Richie’s tangled hair, threading his fingers through the messy locks. He tugged just enough to get Richie’s eyes to focus again. A smile settled on the boy’s face, wiry and crooked. Stan tugged again. Richie huffed something teetering on a laugh as a shiver ran through him.

“Stop,” Richie wheezed, “You’re killin’ me, Stanley,” Stan tugged again, just to hear the laugh. It was a lot breathier that time, “I swear to god, Uris -”

Stan laughed at that, a creaky wheeze squeezing through his panic, deflating him into a heap in Richie’s arms. It didn’t feel safe, but it felt sheltered. Stan supposed that could be enough for now.

“See?” Richie begged, “It’s okay. We’re okay. I promise.”

It felt childish, almost idiotic, but Stan leaned further against him with a soft, “... Promise?”

The chuckle brushed his curls, rustling them against a ruddy and salt tracked cheek as Richie huffed, “Yeah, babe. Promise,” The arms around him tightened, “But we gotta get the fuck outta here, okay?” 

“Yeah, that seems smart,” Stan mumbled, adrenaline crashing as he tried to right himself on his own two legs. He didn’t remember it being this hard to move before. A shiver quickly became a near wracking tremble in his limbs, “Sorry,” Stan fumbled, “I -”

Richie hoisted them both up. His legs weren’t much better off, but a look of determination had set into his jaw. Stan had seen him trip over his own sneakers twice in a ten foot distance before. On more than one occasion. But that Richie seemed erased. His eyes were blown wide, but not vacant, aware but not overwhelmed. Steady, assured, powerful.

A true Sentinel if Stan had ever seen one.

A panic filled him for a second. A gnawing need to scramble away, to filter through the hospital hallways into obscurity once more. A nose and the rim of too large glasses dug against his temple.

The panic left.

Maybe he really was in shock now. His weight slumped against Richie’s wiry frame, hands fisting the pilled cotton of his hoodie. Richie’s forehead found his own once more, the height difference skewed the angle. Richie’s shoulders hunched to meet him, and Stan nearly went on his toes to accommodate. But, despite the bleach like smell and claustrophobic space, neither fidgeted.

Footsteps echoed past them, stopping at the door. Stan shot away from Richie. Neither dared to take a breath. The knob turned, casting a harsh fluorescent gleam across them both.

The figure was obscured, face shadowed as Stan blinked away spots. A thousand explanations crawled in his throat, but none could make it past his choked tongue. There was nowhere to run.

“Jesus fuck, are you serious?”

A boy who couldn’t be more than twenty came into focus, mild acne freckled across his irked brow. He was a beanpole. His ID picture showed a goofy smile, Quinn written in block letters over whatever first name had been there before. He stared at them both, face twisting further into frustration.

“There are so many beds and you two have to fuck in a closet?” He groaned, shouldering past them into the stuffed room as he continued, “What a fuckin’ cliche, they’re gonna make me mop that shit up. Perverts fucking in hospi-“ Two packs of toilet paper in hand, Quinn rounded on them, “This isn’t gonna be a threeway, get the fuck out!”

Richie jumped into motion, hands gripping Stan’s shoulders to scoot them out of the janitor’s warpath. The two hugged the far wall and watched Quinn pointedly lock the door behind him with a nearly comical rage.

“Unsanitary,” He spit, “Fuck in a shower like decent people.”

Stan watched him take off down the hall, rounding a corner without another word. A chuckle bubbled out of Richie, spilling into a nearly hysterical laugh. Stan was too stunned to answer.

“Good to know he fucks in a shower,” Richie wheezed.

“Sounds like he needs to get fucked in a shower,” Stan muttered. Richie’s laugh started up again. Stan was shocked to see him almost look… choked up.

“God, you’re amazing,” Richie said. Stan flushed. He didn’t know how to answer that.

Instead he ducked his head, just slightly - no raising suspicion, and took Richie’s wrist in his hand. He tugged them along what Stan had hoped was the exit. The front route felt too obvious now, and they couldn’t go back the way they’d come with all those photographers. The building was massive, there had to be another exit somewhere. Stan didn’t let his pace speed up to match his running thoughts, but his hand gripped Richie’s wrist tighter.

Richie wiggled in his grip and Stan let go with a, “Sorry,” But was met with Richie’s warm palm cupping his own. Their fingers weren’t laced, but Richie’s grip was steady enough.

“C’mon,” Richie hummed, long legs keeping an easy pace, “Let’s just ask for help,”

“But, we -”

“Nothing off about asking for help when you’re lost,” Richie offered, “Don’t you think it’d look weirder to wander in random directions with that look on your face?”

Stan paused and looked at Richie. Richie met his gaze openly, a nervous smile on his face. He was waiting for Stan to agree or not. He wasn’t going to make the decision for them. It was almost alarming how Richie did not change considering the circumstances. The most adaptable person Stan had ever seen. At Stan’s nod, Richie took the lead. Not walking ahead of him, but guiding them both to the nearest help desk.

“Hi… Rosie,” Richie said, self deprecating smile in place as he sheepishly scratched his neck, “This place is massive and I can’t figure out how to get back to my car,”

“No problem,” The nurse chirped, a sweet look on her face as she looked at them both, “Parking Lot B is back towards your left at the end of pediatrics. Lot A is that same hallway, but take another left to the corner elevator,”

“Thank you,” Richie laughed, “I figured we were gonna have to admit ourselves here if we didn’t make it before dinner,” 

She laughed like a bell, “The food isn’t worth that. Anything else I can help with?”

“Nope,” Richie smiled, “Thanks a bunch. Have a good one!”

“You too!”

Stan let Richie walk him to wherever he’d been parked. They took the long way to Lot A, and walked through the maze of cars back to Lot B. The curb where they’d sat was just outside of the garage. Richie hopped into the car and waited for Stan to do the same. Stan considered getting into the seat behind him. Keeping distance. He climbed into shotgun.

A shadow came over Richie’s expression once they were two lights away from the hospital, soft grey walls retreating in the rearview. Stan didn’t like that look on Richie’s face, but he knew it well enough. He watched Richie’s eyes dart to every building, noticing every street camera and Patrol Kiosk in a way he definitely hadn’t before. A map of traps opened in his peripherals, a carefully designed landscape to capture and detain rogues. There was nowhere they could go that was inherently safe.

Richie may have found something in Stan, but there wasn’t a happy ending for his new realization. No chance meeting ending in wondrous fate.

Stan knew it; but he couldn’t help but wish Richie didn’t have to

“So what happens now?” He asked. Richie didn’t answer for a long moment. A pregnant pause between them as each worked through their own choices.

Stan didn’t really need to. All of his variables depended on Richie. It was a little terrifying how much that didn’t worry him.

“Where do you want to go?” Richie asked instead, “What do I… What do I need to do?”

Stan snorted, “There’s nothing to _do_ in this situation. I,” He paused, the crestfallen look on Richie’s face was almost wounding, “How about somewhere you go when you hide?”

Richie looked at him confused.

“Somewhere when you need to get away. Where does a famous person go to hide out?”

Richie looked back to the street, a considering frown on his face. Stan watched him work through it before Richie cracked a sigh. He smiled sheepishly, “Usually The Falcon,” He offered, “I mean, beside the cute projectionist, it’s sorta a dud.”

Stan laughed, “Heard that guy’s a dick,”

“Nah,” Richie shrugged, “Just a little shy, I think. Judgmental of drink choices though,”

They fell into a silence, sitting at an endless red light. The traffic was too locked up, they wouldn’t make it through for at least two rotations. Stan needed to… do something. But Stan didn’t have an exit strategy for ‘get photographed with a mid level celebrity.’

“We could go back to my place,” Richie offered, “I mean, we don’t have to, but it’s got locks on the door and no one really knows I live there.”

“Yeah,” Stan agreed, “That works. I need to get Piper though,”

“We can pick her up if you want,” Richie said finally through the light, “Or I can -” Richie’s phone went off, the trill filling the car through the speakers. _Chase Hanson_ lit up across the touch screen console, “Ah, shit, hang on,” He held a finger to his lips before accepting the call.

“Richie! My man! Where the fuck are you?”

“Chase,” Richie laughed, drawing the name out with a lilt, “Who could say where anyone is ever?”

“That’s hilarious, I love it, but we had a meeting? Remember? CBS is still interested but we need to -”

“Sorry, dude, I just -” He glanced at Stan, “Something came up. Can we meet tomorrow? Later in the week? I’ll make it up to you,”

“Yeah,” The voice crackled through, still booming, “Does that something have _something_ to do with that tight little piece in those photos?” A laugh punched out, and Richie’s jaw ticked in what might’ve been a snarl.

“What photos?” He said instead.

“Richie, dude, you know better,” He sighed, “Look, he’s cute. And he wasn’t blowing you so it’s not _bad,_ bet that would've been nice though -”

“- Chase -” Richie cut in, but was stampeded over.

“I’m _kidding_!” He guffawed, “Relax, shit. But look, paps are out. Full speed ahead. Come on home, lay low. I’m already over. Made myself at home, of course," Stan tensed in his seat, "Just gotta go over some contracts, I promise, super quick.”

“You can’t just email them?” Richie insisted, “We’re in a modern age, man,”

“I mean,” Chase’s voice _felt_ greasy, “If you’re gonna be doing _something_ important,”

Richie looked to Stan with an apologetic expression before his voice mirrored Chase’s tone, “You know me too well, my man. Look, lemme do what I need to do. Come by next week. I’ll have all my…” He winced, “Pieces sorted out and we can talk shop. Sound good, dude?”

“God, you animal,” Chase laughed, “Wear him out, huh? He seems fun. Have a good time, kiddo. I'll be outta here in twenty, lemme finish my coffee. Y'know, that espresso machine I got you that has a sheen of dust?"

"I know the one," Richie said, shoulders relaxing.

"I’ll email the forms in a bit,”

“Yeah, great,” Richie laughed, “Bye,” He ended the call before Chase could respond. Stan looked at his knees, “I’m sorry about that,”

“It’s okay,” Stan snickered, “He seems delightful,”

Richie laughed, rubbing his temples as he sighed, “Well I promise you’ll never have to meet him.”

 

\-----

 

Stan ended up calling Beverly about Piper. His keys were still in the projection room and hopping around town left him feeling jumpy. He’d rather Bev know where he lived than risk getting spotted while the ‘paps were out.’ A quick call and nearly hour drive later and they were at a nondescript house.

It was tudor style, older Los Angeles design with nothing that really made it stand out from the rest of the block. The houses weren’t even spaced apart like he’d pictured rich people would have. Two stories with a small driveway and neatly trimmed yard. There were children playing two houses over, no worry of running into traffic with the little culdesac they winded around.

“No one’s gonna bother you,” Richie promised, hopping up the steps to unlock the door, “Everyone here is loaded, I’m honestly in the lower bracket. Bunch of hedge fund managers or whatever it is rich suit wearers do,” Four locks later, and the door swung open, “Everyone just sits in their houses and lets nannies watch their kids,”

“American dream,” Stan mumbled, looking around from the brick porch. The kids were small, the younger barely past a toddler. They looked delighted. Stan couldn’t hold in a smile.

“C’mon,” Richie said, “You might get attention if you keep standing there staring at children,”

Stan followed him inside, and Richie stepped away from the door to let Stan shut it himself. Stan wondered if Richie was doing all this consciously, all these allowances for Stan to make his own decisions. Stan shut the door, did up the locks, and trailed behind Richie as he walked deeper into the house.

Richie flipped the lights on as they went, but it seemed more like a reflex with how little difference it made. The soft dusty glow throughout the home cast an almost orange hue across Richie’s freckled skin.

The hallway led to a kitchen with state of the art appliances that looked unused beyond the microwave. A nook held two chairs and an antique table. The living room was decorated like someone else had done it. None of the home looked like Richie.

The only thing that even implied he lived there at all was the row of consoles under the TV and his bedroom which he called, “A shithole,” But didn’t lead Stan upstairs to see for himself. Stan couldn’t tell if it was a privacy thing or an “I’m not expecting sex” thing. Stan hadn’t ever done this before, didn’t know the dance.  

Richie, after a quick tour, dropped onto the couch. He pulled off the glasses that Stan had never seen him without and shoved them into his jacket pocket. He blinked once, twice, and rubbed his lids harshly before settling.

“Why do you wear those?” Stan asked, able now that all the cards were on the table, “Sentinels don’t need glasses,”

Richie shrugged, “They help. Things get too,” he waved his hand, “ _Loud_ , I guess? Too sharp. So the glasses sorta fuzz things out. Dull the edges. Keep it tolerable.”

“That’s smart,” Stan hummed.

“It’s weird,” Richie amended, “I know. All my shit is turned up to a fuckin’ fifteen. Half the time I can’t get out of bed without wanting to scream but you can’t scream cause _that’s_ too loud,”

“It sounds painful,” Stan mumbled, a familiar tug beginning in his chest.

“It’s fucked is what it is,” Richie laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes, “Broken ass brain. Load of shit. We’re no better than babies,” Richie sneered, “Helpless,”

Stan had thought the same thing countless times. A vulnerable niche group building propaganda like a fortress to benefit themselves. But it felt wrong to agree. Richie didn’t seem to be speaking about Sentinels so much as himself. Stan didn’t think Richie was helpless, he wouldn’t have made it as far as he had if he was helpless. Stan had seen a weak Sentinel before. Richie was nothing like that.

But the words wouldn’t come to him. He wasn’t one for speeches. For declarations. So Stan sat next to him instead. Letting himself settle against the edges and grooves of Richie, sides flush as he let his head rest on the other boy’s shoulder.

“I don’t think you’re helpless,” Stan said, “Just a dumbass,”

Richie laughed, gently shaking them both as his chest fluttered, “Yeah? What gave that away?”

“You should’ve left me there.”

Richie stopped laughing.

“What?”

“At the hospital,”

“No, no, I got that context. I mean,” He twisted, finding Stan’s eyes, “What the _fuck_? Are you serious?”

“I was going to make you forget anyway. To make it easier,” _For me_ , “But you… They’ll arrest you. It’s not -”

“- What, it’s not what?”

“ _I’m_ not worth that,” Stan trembled, but didn’t look away, “You don’t know me,”

“I know you well enough to know you’re a person,” Richie pressed, “A human person who doesn’t - I don’t even know what they do to guides,”

“I could hurt you,” Stan spit, “I could kill you. That other guide almost did - to Ben. That’s why he’s in the hospital,”

“Are you going to?” Richie asked.

Stan faltered, “What?”

“Are you going to kill me?” Richie repeated.

“ _No_ ,” Stan didn’t - he -

“Yeah, psycho, I know that,” Richie flicked Stan’s forehead. The hand went around to cradle Stan’s head, bringing their foreheads together again, “And I know you know that. Why would I ever be afraid of you?”

The same reason Stan didn’t think he could be afraid of Richie. That the thought alone of that vulnerability was almost worse. Defenses falling without notice. Walls forming around them instead of between. It was terrifying.

Stan leaned into him, “Because I could kick your ass,” He huffed.

“Again,” Richie snickered, “We already knew that. You’re gonna have to provide new facts, Uris,”

Stan sighed in feigned annoyance. Richie scratched his nails through Stan’s curls.

The smile was out of focus; Stan had to go cross eyed to see it. But it was worth it as the hand began to move again. Stan could feel his fingers still trembling, a chilled adrenaline not quite leaving his system. Richie’s free hand found his, calloused thumb stroking alone rattling bone.

“We should watch a movie,” Richie whispered, like someone could hear, “Because that’s something we’ve never done before,”

“I haven’t, actually,” Stan mumbled, “I just watch you,”

Maybe it was the proximity that was affecting how much of Stan’s foot he could fit in his mouth. A stuttered denial tried to form, but Richie laughed over it.

“Psycho,” He teased, like he was saying something else entirely.

“Are you this touchy with all your movie going experience providers?” Stan asked. The hand paused.

“Sorry,” Richie whispered, “I just… god saying I like touching you sounds like a serial killer,”

Stan leaned into the hand, “A true maniac, yeah.”

Stan watched him hop up to pick a movie from an expansive four options on his shelf, “We have Netflix,” Richie said, “But I only keep solid copies of the greats,” Stan could see _Holes_ and _High School Musical_ poking between his fingers.

Stan nodded solemnly, but the raspberry creeped between his pursed lips until Richie muttered, “Sacrilege,” And made a decision. An empty desert full of teenage boys filled the menu screen. Richie, after half tripping into the kitchen, returned with chips and sodas next to Stan.

Stan didn’t know what he expected Richie to be like during a movie for all his nervous energy and talkative nature. But Richie seemed almost hyper focused, only dropping little bits of trivia about how the yellow spotted lizards were bearded dragons and locations they shot at.

By the time Stanley Yelnats - Stan had asked twice if Richie picked the movie on the name alone - was on a bus, Stan had finished his soda. The sugar calmed the jitter in him, let him settle into the overstuffed couch and Richie’s flank. He leaned forward, dislodging Richie only to put the can onto the table, then slumped back into the warmth along his side. Stan’s arm went lax between them, hand palm up and open, fingers brushing Richie’s own.

He hadn’t meant to, hadn’t calculated like kids in movies always tried. But the contact sent a set of shivers through Stan again. There was no danger, no immediate threat or camera to break contact for. Stan could just… slide his hand an inch over, if that. Just a bit. He counted the seconds in his head, getting to sixty before allowing himself to try again.

Once their fingers rested between each other’s, cradled in the gaps between their knuckles, Stan felt a bit at a loss. What now? He knew what he _could_ do but, all of this was new territory. No man’s land had opened up around him in opportunity. He felt like a kid, like a dork who was trying to - to make a move. Except he wasn’t fourteen on a first date with his parent’s money. He was twenty five.

Stan’s hand twitched, ready to settle back into his own lap and actually watch the movie, when Richie’s grip closed around his own. Threading their fingers together, a steady pressure around his hand that was familiar in sensation yet new in intention.  Stan squeezed back, and let his jaw rest on Richie’s shoulder as the other boy’s cheek hit his head.

“I had a crush on Zero,” Stan admitted, smiling at their first reading lesson.

“Everyone did,” Richie agreed, “That was practically a law. He was the cutest,” His face scruffed across Stan’s hair, “Maybe it was the curls, gotta love a boy with curls -”

“Stop talking during the movie,” Stan snipped, face flushing.

“You started it,” Richie insisted. Stan squeezed his hand harder, until Richie wheezed a, “Brat,” and dropped a kiss to his scalp.

He probably didn’t mean anything by it. It had been a long day, a terrifying day, and the warmth of safety must’ve seeped into them both. But Stan felt like a brand had been placed. A ring where Richie’s lips had pressed that left him squeezing Richie’s hand once more.

Human contact had been off the table since Stan learned it could end his life. And being admittedly touch starved was better than any alternative. He wouldn’t risk even hugging his mother anymore, paranoid of something setting anything off - a constant barrage of possibilities Stan couldn’t ever hope to counter measure.

He’d felt safe with his mom before. She had been everything to him. But since the quarry Stan couldn’t be sure. She’d seen the unlabeled shuttles go flying by, ones that would lock Stan’s spike, and just assured him they were, “Doing their jobs, sweet pea. It’s okay. They aren’t going to bother you.”

Stan had wanted to tell her. Had wanted to tell her everything just like Ms. Collins had told him not to. But he couldn’t be _sure_ that she’d still love him. That she’d kiss his cheek and hold him and shush until he calmed down enough to tell her what was wrong. That she’d hold his hand while he told his dad and they’d both say they loved him and it would be okay.

He didn’t want to chance that heartbreak.

Richie hadn’t changed, granted Stan hadn’t intended to tell him. Richie had held him and told him it was going to be okay.

“You make me feel safe,” Stan confessed, voice shushed as the movie played on.

“Good,” Richie said, “You deserve to,” They watched Sam offer to fix anything and everything, “I had a crush on Sam too,”

“Everyone did,” Stan said.

“Could I kiss you?” Stan asked, half worried half hoping Richie couldn’t hear.

Richie smiled, “You picked the worst time,” He nodded to the screen, “Tragedy is about to hit,”

“Yeah,” Stan agreed, not looking away, “But they’re happy now,”

Richie leaned closer, until their breath mingled. Until Stan swore Richie could feel the nervous heat from his face, “They’re happy now,”

Stan closed the gap.

Richie tasted like Dr Pepper and salt. The kiss was slow, almost chaste. Their mouths moved hesitantly, dry lips brushing until Stan felt the peak of a tongue.

A shot rang out. Stan jerked away, alarmed, to see the lone boat on the screen. Richie chuckled and Stan hid in his neck with a groan.

“I warned you,” Richie teased, “Worst time.”

Stan hummed I’m agreement, but murmured, “Worth it,” against mole splatted skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry for the extensive amount of holes movie references.
> 
> please lemme know what you think. i'll respond to all comments if it kills me.


	10. lehtësi

Stan woke up before the sun rose. Headlights swung across the windows, bleeding light into the room enough that Stan’s eyes creaked open. Glaring white washing across tufted pillows and Richie’s elbow cradling Stan’s head. They vanished a moment later, as the car followed the bend of the cul de sac.

He was still on the couch with his back flush to Richie’s chest. A throw blanket haphazardly skewed across their legs. The other boy’s nose was jammed into his neck, the skin hot as Richie breathed deeply against him. Stan felt a tacky sweat along his back, overheated with Richie slotted up against him all night in jackets and jeans. He thought to dislodge, pull the fabric from where it clung to him, let his skin breathe a moment. But Richie shifted, arm a solid weight across Stan’s hip, and Stan settled back down once more.

He woke again to Richie moving, restless from being pinned between the couch and Stan sleeping. Stan twisted to look up at him, and found Richie looking sheepish at being caught staring.

“I’ve only been awake for like, two minutes,” Richie promised, “I was just trying to figure out how to slip out and make you breakfast,”

“Do you even know how to cook?” Stan asked, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“In theory,” Richie shrugged, “I just assumed you’d tell me I’m awesome at it since you adore me so much,”

“You assumed wrong,” Stan said, “I actually can’t stand you.”

“Damn, all my suspicions confirmed,”

“I’m just in it for the playstation,” Stan said solemnly, “What do you want?”

Richie squinted at that, “What?”

“For breakfast,” Stan clarified, “I don’t want to die when you burn the house down,”

“Aww, babe, are you cooking for me cause you made a move last night?” Richie laughed at Stan’s pinking ears, tugging them both up and almost successfully not tripping. They both sprawled across the floor, “Gonna make me eggos for putting out?”

“Please tell me you have more than eggos,” Stan huffed, pointedly ignoring the suggestion of putting out.

Richie just laughed again, which was concerning, and got his feet under himself in a crouch. Two arms slid beneath Stan’s back and knees and was lifted into the air. A most decidedly _not_ shriek left Stan at the movement. His arms swung to cling to Richie’s neck, one hand accidentally smacking the others cheek.

The walk to the kitchen didn’t end in disaster like Stan had feared. Richie did an _alarming_ maneuver of twisting Stan so he instead rode on his back. Richie’s skin was practically thrumming beneath Stan’s arms, movements quick and alert. Every shift of Stan against him seemed to send a jolt through him, like he was trying to -

Oh.

Stan had read about bonding once, tucked away in a corner of his middle school library with a book on _Growing Up Sentinel Strong!_ It had been glossed over, almost clinical in explanation. Seeing Richie now… that made sense.

Compatible people would start to tune into each other. Stan was, whether or not he actively tried, balancing Richie’s senses. And Richie, by fluctuation of his own sensory input, would become dependent on Stan for a period of time as he adjusted. Stan would learn to subconsciously ease Richie to a functional state as Richie learned how to be eased to a tolerable level.

Richie was cataloguing his touch, his sensitivity jacked up to receive and feel every sensation with vivid clarity. He wasn’t doing it intentionally, and even began to look a little pained by Stan’s elbow shifting against his collarbone. Wincing like the shift of their skin was _loud._

Stan placed a palm to Richie’s forehead, pressing gently against the prickling skin. His own forehead pressing against the crown of Richie’s head. Richie stopped moving completely, paused for the first time since he’d woken. Stan let his hand and head press firmer, a solid weight for Richie to focus into. It might’ve looked ridiculous if Stan thought too hard about it. Richie standing in a kitchen with Stan on his back covering his eyes.

But Stan let himself focus, let his own mind settle into a calm blank. Richie’s grip on his thighs lessened, slack but steady. Stan didn’t know _what_ he was doing any more than he’d known any of the times before. Not trying to push a motive, but just ease Richie into something more comfortable.

They didn’t stay like that for more than a minute, if that. But Richie took a deep breath, like he’d broken to the surface for the first time in years, and tipped his head back against Stan’s own.

“Witchcraft,” He hummed, voice slow but not drunk.

“Yeah,” Stan mumbled, “Probably,”

Breakfast ended up being eggos, if only because Richie had the taste buds of a nine year old. Stan made eggs too. Still perched on Richie’s back, directing him quietly on when to turn the burner up and when to flip. Again, it would’ve been ridiculous. But Stan just let himself enjoy the boost in height.

He was put down to eat, but the two kept knocking knees beneath the small breakfast table.

Bonding was normal, Stan knew, but it left him with a flush of embarrassment. He hadn’t been prepared for how eager he would be for the contact. Every nudge or squeeze or grip felt like a relief. Like he’d been starving himself for so long and now there was an outpour of just… affection. Honest affection.

The kiss had snowballed into not being more than two feet apart at any given moment. None of it felt feverish, rushed, even intense. It just felt _nice_. That wasn’t ever in the book Stan had read. It probably wasn’t heard of anymore. Stan couldn’t imagine mimicking the delight he felt when Richie leaned into his hand or hugged him closer.

Stan almost went to kiss him again, but didn’t want to push it; wouldn’t chance knocking the greatest feeling he’d had off its axis.

Like curling up on the couch with mindless sitcoms playing for background noise. Richie was sprawled on his back, Stan molded up against him; chest to chest. A hand scratching through his unmanageable hair, impersonating any lines that made Stan laugh so he could, “Hear that again,” Richie blew on the springier curls to watch them bounce, “Your hair is ridiculous,”

“Yeah, it’s not great,” Stan agreed.

“No, it’s amazing,” Richie said, “Wild, wild hair. How does it know to grow like that?”

“Does it all by itself,” Stan promised, taking a grave tone that made Richie snicker. Stan liked when Richie laughed, when he could without strain, “It’s like you’re high,”

“Nah,” Richie said, “I’m not cool enough for weed,”

“That is nearly unbelievable,”

“What? That I’m not cool?”

“No; that you don’t have weed. I know you’re not cool,” Stan clarified, curls flying as Richie puffed at them in retaliation.

“I don’t know how it’d mix,” Richie began to stroke Stan’s brows as he spoke, “Some people get mellow, but some people get paranoid. Didn’t wanna chance it,”

“Makes sense,” Stan hummed, scrunching his brows just to be difficult.

“Why? You ever been high?” Richie asked, nails dragging through the fine hairs.

Stan snorted, “No, god, never,”

“Lil’ straight edge,” Richie teased, “Bet you’ve never even been drunk,”

“Once,” Stan corrected, “With Beverly… on a roof, and then a bar. But mainly a roof,”

“What a way to begin,” Richie laughed, “You got a whole mess of firsts, I bet.”

Stan’s face heated despite himself and he bit Richie’s palm. Richie squawked, and flailed it dramatically. Stan slipped his fingers beneath the collar of Richie’s tee, knuckles brushing his collarbone.

“You weren’t my first kiss, if that’s what you’re trying to imply,” Stan drawled.

“I’d never, you’re a big boy -”

“ - You were my second.”

Richie seemed to shut down, “Second person?”

“Second kiss,” Stan admitted.

“ _Ever_?” Richie giggled, looking nothing short of delighted as his arms found their way around the small of Stan’s back. He tugged him up closer as he asked, “Who was first? Who do I gotta fight?”

Stan groaned, “Patty Blum,”

They’d been eighteen. Freshman year at a college party with Stan hugging a wall to avoid the slosh of alcohol. He’d been adamantly trying for normality in a sea of people who didn’t recognize him.

She’d been so pretty, chocolate curls framing her face like a mermaid. Patty had drank enough for the both of them, and had laughed at anything Stan had said. She’d leaned against him as he’d offered to walk her home since that seemed like the thing he should do. He’d gone for the kiss, just as he’d done with Richie. He felt a little bad about it, she’d been past tipsy when he nervously stepped closer.

But she’d said she’d marry him on her porch steps. And Stan… had let himself believe it, just for a second. That they could do that. That he could propose to her and she’d say yes and they’d have a kid and a bird and a dog too. So he’d leaned in and kissed her.

It had been obvious he didn’t know how if the look on her face was any indication. She’d smiled at him, been sweet about it, but Stan let her go inside without a word. He saw her two more times before he’d dropped out. She’d been much quieter, but just as kind. She clearly was waiting for him to ask her out, be the sweet man she thought he was.

He never let himself. Seeing her outside of the flashing lights and thrumming music was as sobering as anything. He wouldn’t chance making her unhappy.

Stan told Richie as much, quietly reliving it against Richie’s slowly rising and falling chest. Richie squeezed him tighter, “She sounds lovely,”

“She was,” Stan looked at Richie, “You are too,”

“Aw, Stanley,” Richie leaned in, “Could I kiss you?”

“Don’t mock me,” Stan grumbled, but tilted his chin up regardless.

“Never,” Richie promised and kissed him slowly, “Maybe a little,” He conceded. Stan bit his lower lip, sucking it between his teeth as Richie’s breath hitched, “You’re gonna make me _blush_ ,”

“Are you _sure_ you’re not high?” Stan laughed, cheeks pinking at his own actions.

“Just on you. I’m not cool, remember?” Richie drummed a pattern across Stan’s ribs, an actual rhythm forming, no longer mindless and scattered, “Booze though,” Richie gleamed, “I got plenty of that. We could get good and toasted if you want,”

Stan’s laugh trailed off at that, “Really?”

“Anything for you, babe,” Richie cooed.

“It’s…” Stan looked to Richie’s phone, tossed onto the coffee table, “Eight in the morning,”

“I’m sure you’d be a much better kisser drunk,” Stan dropped his head, smug at the _oof_ from his chin digging into Richie, “I’m _kidding_ , Jesus - “

“If you insist.”

“Control your enthusiasm, please,” Richie said, making no move to dislodge Stan from his chest. Stan laid his hands flat on the Richie’s nape, fingers threaded along his spine, brushing against baby hairs, “Un… unmanageable,” Richie melted into the touch, and let his hands trace up Stan’s back to mirror the grip. Stan didn’t speak, didn’t push a thought just as he’d done at breakfast. There was no need to urge Richie to _relax_ or _forget_ or _stop._

They laid there for a moment longer, soft puffs of breath against Stan’s forehead and Richie’s chest. Socked toes curling against Richie’s calf, creases forming against his cheek from the seams of Richie’s shirt.

There was just the two of them, comfortable and silent and settled.

Stan had travelled across state lines, running from phantoms and eyes that didn’t blink. From a cursed sentencing that had been in his identity before he could ever prepare to face it.

It wasn’t scary with Richie. It felt right. Like this was something that could be okay. The hauntings of childhood brushed away with Richie’s hands against him. Stan had him, really had him in his grip. And Richie didn’t try to dominate it, control it. Just as Stan didn’t try to control him. Just, let them rest. Let himself be a presence in Richie’s mind that was able to settle his bones.

It was complete placidity.

Richie’s phone clattered across the table, lighting up as it vibrated. Stan startled at the noise, but Richie didn’t even blink, mumbling a soft, “Ignore it,” As it continued to shake.

It finally went to voicemail before immediately ringing again. And again. The noise was grating in the room that felt filled from their trance of silence. Even Netflix had asked if they were still watching in consideration.

But it rang again.

Richie finally groaned, arm dragging from Stan’s neck to flip the phone into his hand. A glaring white light came off it before Stan’s eyes focused.

_Chase Hanson_

Stan blinked, “Wha…?”

The door slammed open behind them, wood ricocheting into the plaster wall.

Stan froze, uncomprehending as the room filled with blinding flood lights. Richie froze beneath him, the light locking him up beneath Stan’s hand. His grip tightened on Stan, fingers unyielding in reflexive shock. Stan grappled them, trying to pry himself free, feet scrambling under him as, oh god - oh _fuck -_ soldiers rushed the room.

They were everywhere, a wall forming around the two of them as Richie tried to focus and Stan tried to flee. There was nowhere to go, there was nowhere to fucking go but he had to -

_MOVE_

The pillars around him didn’t waver. The plea - the _command_ \- that rattled through fell to deaf ears. They were Leveled. He couldn’t touch them. Richie’s hand flew off him, afflicted by the push, and Stan threw himself at the closest body. They staggered as he hurled himself, his entire weight just enough to tip them. A stun baton rammed its way between his ribs. Stan shouted at the pain, blinding and startling, but didn’t let himself stop moving. His feet sliding as they meet wood. The soldiers regrouped after him. The door was wide open.

It was right there itwasrightthereitwas _rightthere_ -

A callous hand dug into his hair, whipping him back into the floor. Stan’s skull hit the wood with a sickening _smack,_ the wind knocked from his lungs as swamp eyes stared down at him.

Gretta smiled cruelly, “Shoulda fucking known,” Her nails dug crescents of blood into his curls.

Stan’s hands grabbed her wrist, yanking as she twisted her grip viciously. A yell clawed out of him as strands of hair pulled free. A knee slammed into his chest, holding him flat. His vision was graying, spots dancing across the room as he tried to scramble. He was a trapped animal.

Boots thudded next to his ear, and a horrible gleam of metal links clicked together above him.

_No_

“Officer Gretta Keene. Rogue Collection Division, proceeding containment of Stanley Uris, age twenty five.”

_Nononono_

“You have been hiding your biological status as a guide.”

The grip ripped further into Stan’s skin, her free hand palm striking his jaw. Forcing his head to tilt up. Holding his throat exposed as the links _clicked clicked clicked_

_Nonono get off geTOFF N O NO N O_

“Rogues are an enemy of the state and will not be -”

Stan’s hand shot out, fingers digging savagely into her face to try and dislodge her. Blood seeped beneath his nails. Her smile became a snarl of rage as she slammed his head back against floor once, twice - but his arms were longer. She couldn’t get out of his reach. A baton crackled in the bend of his elbow. But he dug harder, unable to get a grip but clawing at her, desperate to get away. A blind need to _fightfightfight_ building in him.

_GET OFF GET OFF NONONONO_

“ - _Tolerated_.” She spit as she held him prone. More hands gripped him, yanked him, held him down. But his nails clung to her scratched face, digging gouges - He wouldn’t stop -

The collar clicked into place.

Stan screamed. A ragged cry of agony.

_d     i     e_

Gretta’s eyes widened, brow twitching in confused horror for a moment before her whole neck jerked.

A deafening crack echoed.

Her swamp eyes pooled bloodshot, face frozen as her head dangled horribly to the right. Stan saw the vertebrae shifted out of line.

His scream didn’t stop. Cracking into wracking sobs.

The hands left him. Flying off of his person as Gretta collapsed against his shaking form. Only the cold metal vice around his throat held him now.

A hand brush through his blood matted curls, gently, softly. Lovingly. A wash of calm settled over him. Relaxing his muscles and bones and nerves as Gretta was tugged from atop him and into a heap on the floor.

“That’s quite enough of that,”

Stan's head flopped to the side, unable to balance itself upright. Blurred patent loafers came into view, floating through Stan’s hazy vision. He felt warm. Artificially warm. A syrupy weight was in his bloodstream. Leaving him prone, exposed. The panic hadn’t left him, but he lay as still as sleep just the same.

_that ’ s it , stanley . settle down ._

It reverberated through him, through every inch of him. And he complied. Unwilling and aware, his body sank regardless. A horror shot through him.

He was being eased.

The guide before him, too blurry to see expression, cooed like a doting parent. Cradling Stan’s freshly bruised jaw, “That’s alright, huh? You’re just fine. Just _relax_ ,”

Stan went impossibly more weightless. Sinking into the polished grain beneath him. The hand stayed on him, stroking his forehead as he was hoisted into the air. His limbs were unresponsive, twisted and jerked like a rag doll in the grip of a stranger. It was a cruel mirror to how Richie had lifted him not hours before.

Richie.

Where was Richie?

“Shhh,” The voice came again, and the hand tilted his swaying head to droop behind him, neck bending as he looked upside down across the living room.

Richie was standing, expression blank. He stared at Stan.

Stan felt tears drip down his temples despite not a single muscle twitching in his face.

_Richie p l e a_

_that ‘ s enough , stanley ._

Stan was jerked back into himself, Richie didn’t so much as twitch. Face passive as he watched.

“Don’t worry,” The guide crooned, “He’s okay, see? He doesn’t need you,”

Stan began to move. Out the door. Down the steps. Until all he could see were closing van doors.

The guide came back into view. Cradling Stan’s head in their… his lap. It was a man. A tall man. His eyes were shockingly blue. Stan couldn't look away from them, unable to even move his eyes in their sockets.

Stan tried to beg, to sob, to scream. But he couldn’t even blink.

A hand covered his eyes, pushing his lids down. Encasing him in darkness.

_now sleep ._

Stan sank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaaaand we're in it now.
> 
> thank you for sticking it out this far. it means the world i swear. can you believe that THIS point was the original idea? and all that came before was so i seemed like less of a sadist? 
> 
> the story is only going to get darker. please note that my dudes. this is angst. i beg you to stick it out.
> 
> lemme know if it sucked.


	11. lengvumas

Stan slept on his side, usually curled around a pillow - or more recently Richie. He always kept himself facing a door. Wrapped up in blankets upon blankets and tucked as small as possible. It was comforting that way. Shelter. Even if it was just the illusion of it. Which is why laying splayed across his back with nothing over him pulled Stan from sleep faster than his groggy mind could process.

A gray ceiling met his sleep muddled gaze. Smooth plaster with an imbedded light running along the seam of the crown molding. It was refracted through a cloudy plastic cover, making everything seem soft and hazy. Indirect.

His mouth was drier than it had ever been, tongue caked to the roof of his mouth, lips cracked. His stomach clenched, empty. His clothes felt tacky, clinging to clammy skin. He arched his back, soft pops darting down his spine, and went to tug the shirt off.

His hands didn’t move. Stan looked up, craning his neck at the angle to see soft fleece lined leather cuffed around his wrists. They lay sewn to a strap that ran just above his head. Stan was _incredibly_ awake now. A whole body jerk ran through him, reflexive and terrified, to have a sharp ache run through his ankles. They were in the same casing, pulling his legs laid taut to the jersey sheets beneath him. He jerked again as the day before - week before? How long had he _been_ here - flooded back.

The lights. Gretta. Blood filled swamp eyes. Then blue ones. Horribly blue pulling him down until he couldn’t see.

Splayed like a pinned butterfly. Stan abruptly stopped, air constricted in his chest; unwilling to move. A choking panic started to fill him, cloying up his throat till he felt sick with it. A ragged gasp punched out of him. He was - he was _here_ \- he was going to _die_ here or _worse -_

A reedy breath fought through his teeth, unable to stay in his lungs before it shot back out in panicked puffs. His vision felt spotty, oxygen not reaching him, and his vision became blurry with tears flooding his eyes, cutting down his temples and onto the pillowcase beneath him.

“You can’t cry here, kiddo,” A voice drawled, “People’ll know how pretty you look,”

The air in Stan froze again. Startled into a sense of placidity at the airy voice to his right. He turned his head, and just over the crux of his elbow, he could see a man.

Practically a boy. He was an odd blend of childish features and deep age - but couldn’t have been more than a few years Stan’s senior. He had long black hair, looped waves brushing his shoulders and framing a placid face. His lips were a deep red, almost liver like, and they sat expressionless in his face. His eyes were blue. Not the blue from before, but nearly gray. They almost protruded from his sockets, staring at Stan.

But he sat on the opposite bed. Clad in a polo and fitted khakis with soft nearly soleless shoes. Not in cuffs, but in the room all the same. No collar sat around his neck, but the red tinged ring along his long throat looked like healed burns.

“Help,” Stan rasped, not daring to be any louder than a whisper, “Help me,”

The man looked almost _bored_. Observing Stan, not moving at all. Stan flexed in the binds, asking again, a plea seeping into his tone. The man did nothing. No hesitation on his face, no fear of repercussions. He just didn’t _want_ to.

An anger bubbled in Stan, and he wrenched his wrists and ankles towards his center, hoping for any give to throttle this fucker across from him.

“What is wrong with you?” Stan spit, “Help me you fucking piece of - _shit_ ,”

Stan choked on his words as the other stood up suddenly, movements liquid as he rose to an alarming full height. His eyes weren’t any more alive, but an interest in his posture set Stan’s teeth on edge.

“What did you say?” He asked.

“I said help me,” Stan demanded, patience giving to desperation. Someone could come in at any moment. He needed to get off this bed.

A livery smile stretched across his face. He loomed over Stan, face blocked from the soft glow of light.

“You’re funny,” He said.

A heavy weight dropped onto Stan’s stomach, knocking the air out of him as the man made himself comfortable. He was _sitting_ on him. Cold hands began to touch him, pulling at the skin of his arms, his neck, his face, until Stan winced as his tender scalp was tugged. The man paused, eyes flat, as he began to prod further. Stan’s eyes prickled at the sting, torn skin pressed at by bitten down fingernails.

“Stop,” Stan wheezed, struggling to breath under the weight. The man ignored him, and Stan attempted to jerk his head away as a scab was peeled away. The hands shot out violently, holding him still. Stan met his eyes, unable to look away. The man leaned closer, closer, until Stan’s vision swam with him.

Stan didn’t speak, and the man looked to grow bored again. The hands slid back up into his hair. Stan blurted, “What’s your name?”

The eyes shot back to him. A smile growing once more.

“You can’t ask that,” He dismissed.

“What?”

He laughed a little, eyes nearly crinkling to match his smile, “Against the rules.”

“What rules?” Stan asked, “I don’t - I don’t know them, just help me - _god_!”

A brutal tug came again. And then a slow press into the mattress, pressure growing against his freshly stinging scalps until Stan jerked back against the grip - consequences damned. The man looked even more amused at that.

The grip on his face relented, and Stan let himself be grateful for a moment as the buckle of his left wrist began to give. Icy fingers slid across the veins, dragging against thin skin.

“Still fresh,” He hummed, “They never leave it fresh. Rather cook it fast,”

“I don’t know what that means,” Every attempt to free himself just made the grip tighter. A more restricting vice than the leather had been. More dangerous.

“You weren’t cooked…” He said, nail digging into the skin until it turned pink, “That means you weren’t awake. Only process the live ones,” His eyes met Stan’s own again.

“I…”

“How many did you kill?”

Stan’s blood ran as cold as the grip. Swamp eyes filled the dull blue staring at him. Alarming angles of bone. Blood soaked corneas.

Cliff edges.

“None - what? I’ve, I’ve never -” His bones creaked under the grip.

“No lying,” The man sang, “No lying in here. Apologize.” Stan gasped at his wrist twisted slowly in the _wrong wrong wrong_ direction, “Hurt my feelings,”

“I’m sorry,” Stan wheezed, the twist didn’t let up, “I’m _sorry -_ I - I - _fuck,_ ”

_stop_

The other’s eyes lit up, and Stan didn’t know if he’d ever seen anything scarier.

“Ohhhh,” He didn’t shake off the order, didn’t even flinch, and - it wasn’t even a word, a real order, stabbed through Stan. All his joints shook, locked, froze. A yell punched out of him at the pain, “That’s interesting,”

Stan couldn’t even get words out to fight it, didn’t dare throw another command.

The man’s grip left him, Stan’s hand frozen crooked in the air. It was like the man, but instead of being relaxed into paralysis, it was with violence. Like an animal’s shriek through his nerves. Unresponsive. Prone. Helpless. A hand threaded through his curls, no longer digging, but almost adoringly, “You’re so fun,” He whispered, like a childish secret, “Let’s have some more,”

The grip surged in his hair, and the other man jerked on top of him before slowly looking up and away. Stan couldn’t follow the gaze, couldn’t move from where he was, but a light filled the bottom of his peripherals.

“That’s enough, 16120,” A soft voice rang through the room.

The man, 16120, didn’t argue. A bored expression settling back on his face. He simply moved away, dropping back onto his own bed once more. Soft steps echoed until they stopped next to Stan, a young woman holding a tray looking down at him.

She touched Stan’s hand gently, still stuck at the angle 16120 had forced it into, and sighed. Her brow furrowed, and she looked almost apologetically at Stan before quipping a quick, “Sorry,”

A horrible jolt shot through Stan, ricocheting off his nerves and all consuming. It lasted for barely a moment, but he seized and nearly began to sob. He hand dropped to his chest, shaking.

“We only do that if you’re bad,” The girl said, beginning to undo the other wrist strap, “I swear. I just didn’t wanna leave you like that,” She smiled at him, “I’m Rory,”

Stan’s throat clicked, still shivering from the horrible electricity that ghosted along his skin. Rory released his wrist, and laid it to rest on his chest against the other. She moved down to unbuckle his feet quickly, and held out both hands to pull him upright.

She was smaller than Stan, but not by much. Her hair was wild, rich tight curls framing her face and messily pulled into a bun. Her clothes were too fitted and expensive looking to be scrubs, but still looked distinctly sterile. Her ensemble a palette that matched the walls with a soft heavy cardigan bunched to her elbows.

Her left wrist held a thick band, a wide touch screen covering the expanse that held two blinking dots. They had titles beneath them.

16120

51186

Stan didn’t want to think of who that was supposed to be.

A cup of water was placed in his shaking hands and he stared at it for a long moment before glancing up at Rory beneath his curls.

“It’s not poisoned,” She laughed, “Last thing we want is you getting sick. Just water. Scout’s honor,” Stan drank quickly, coughing on the last few swallows. It sat heavy in his gut, his stomach clenching at it sudden capacity. Rory extended her hand once more to pull him up.

He took her hand, “I’m St-”

“Come on,” She cut through. 16120 laughed on the other side of the room.

Rory didn’t cuff him, but walked behind him, a soft touch between shoulder blades to guide him as he walked. Her other hand rested on her elbow, ready to reach for her watch if necessary. Stan didn’t want to feel that again so soon.

The halls were the same color as the room he’d been locked in, soft gray across the walls and ceiling with smooth marble beneath his feet. A single door was open to his right, a sobbing child sitting on a bed as a crouched man held their wrists. Stan turned his head to keep looking, concerned, but the hand against his back pressed harder.

Stan had visualized The Center before in cold sweats and debilitating panics. He could never decide between a hospital or prison. Cages? Maybe. Medical scrubs carrying lobotomy spikes? Sure.

But the halls around him didn’t feel quite like either. They were bland. And completely empty. The child had been the only open door they’d passed. None of them had windows. Or handles. Only the seam of a doorway with small printed letters broke the endless gray wash ahead of him. It looked like a sterilized version of the lobby Stan had seen when he’d stood with Ben.

Their footsteps felt deafening, but even worse they felt voluntary. There were no guards. No stun batons or kevlar vests. The orderly wasn’t even gripping him, pushing him, just guiding on when to turn. Just Stanley and Rory and two rings of metal. Except Stan’s was around his throat and didn’t have a latch. Stan didn’t want to let that make himself feel better, but a warped assurance settled in him regardless.

They finally stopped at a door. _GUIDE_ _PROCESSING_ printed in neat slate letters across it. The word ‘cook’ echoed through Stan’s thoughts with a vacant tone. Rory pressed her wristband to a box above the handle and the door clicked. She easily swung it open and pressed to Stan’s shoulder to angle him through the door. His sneakers squeaked beneath him, jarringly loud in the empty hall.

It was a simple room. Clean, sterile, unassuming. But Stan stopped short at the examination table drilled into the center of the floor. The hand pressed firmly once more, but Stan did not move. A hitched breath shot out of him, and Rory’s hand splayed across spine, fingers wide.

“We won’t strap you down unless you make us,” She said. Stan’s throat clicked beneath the metal collar, small gasps for air at the way the chair had so many levers, so many ways to contort, “Do you want us to strap you down?”

What kind of a question was that? What kind of a choice?

She guided him forward. He sat.

Rory didn’t tell Stan to lay back, let him practically dangle of the stiff cushioning wrapped in sanitation paper. She went to grab a clipboard stuffed with paperwork, and dropped into a rolley stool with a smile. The top of the page was stamped with 51186 in bright red ink. She clicked the pen twice before asking, “Age?”

They already knew that, Gretta had said it when they took him.

“Twenty five,” He mumbled.

She smiled, “Date of birth?”

“January twelfth,”

“Previous resid…” She paused, squinting at her chart before a little laugh left her, “You’re twenty _six_ ,” Stan blinked, “It’s the thirteenth,” She clarified, “You were out for three days. Never thought you’d get up,” She clicked her pen twice more, “Happy birthday!”

Happy Birthday. There was no reaction to that. Static clogged Stan’s ears as his eyes stung. Three days had passed. He’d been cuffed to a bed or god knows what else for three days. Nothing had interfered, interceded, intervened.

Stan had wanted to tell Richie. Confess into fleece sweatshirts that his birthday was soon - just a few days away. But it had been embarrassing. Uncharacteristically self indulgent; hoping for excitement from Richie. So he swallowed down his tongue instead.

Rory began to speak again, tugging Stan’s arm to put a pressure cuff around it. He answered despondently, unaware of even the questions. Complete auto pilot as his lungs, pulse, and blood pressure were checked. A tear slipped out, Stan made no move to wipe it away. His face didn’t shift as he stared blankly ahead.

Only once she went to her wrist did Stan flinch, preemptively tensing for the surge that would come. She looked up at him, and laughed a tinkling thing, “Only if you’re bad,” She reminded, singing like Stan was a child. She held the cuff to her face, “Dr. Geier, to Processing,” Stan watched her back away from her wrist slowly, overdramatic concern on her face. Like it was a joke. Like they were sharing a moment.

The door slid open to show a man, lumbering and wide with a harshly receded hairline. He took the clipboard, and had what could’ve been a kind smile under any other circumstances. He didn’t ever look directly at Stan, but asked Rory questions like the boy wasn’t there at all. When he finally turned to Stan, there was a darker look in his slanted eyes, “Bit of a troublemaker?”

“What?” Stan asked, caught off guard.

“We don’t normally have rogues brought home on stretchers,” The man noted, reading through the pages, “... Nor do we normally have fatalities.”

“He’s up for the procedure,” Rory chimed in.

Stan tensed at that, the boy in the room’s voice echoing _cook cook cook_ once more _._

“That’s not up to me,” Dr. Geier dismissed, “We just need to finish booking,” He hauled himself off of the stool, corded hairy arms peeking beneath slightly too short coat sleeves, “And then I can go to lunch.”

“Did the Mrs. pack anything edible this time?” Rory laughed, pulling a rubber tie around Stan’s arm.

“Fiancee, not Mrs. and I can only hope,” He walking closer, alarmingly in Stan’s space, “Food made with love doesn’t always lack salmonella,”

An alarmingly large needle came into view, with only a quick swipe of antiseptic before easing into the crook of his elbow. Stan looked at the ceiling as the blood sluiced, more unable to watch than he was willing to look away from the two others. Stan didn’t look back until the tug of the needle left his arm. Five vials of blood were being labeled. The room felt too small for the three of them, and especially too small for Stan with how they crowded him. There was nowhere to look to avoid, to pretend he wasn’t there.

Rory reached beneath the table and pulled out a metal bar that _clicked clicked clicked_ its sockets until reaching right beside Stan. He didn’t recognize it from the few times he’d gone to the doctor as a kid. It locked at an odd angle, reaching just off of the table. The top of the bar held a cupped metal piece with a velcro strap over it.

A stirrup.

Stan jerked despite himself, a million horrible outcomes rushing through his mind as Rory fiddled with the angle. He swung back and away, letting his spine smack into the edge of the table. He could already feel a bruise forming, but followed through - rocking his legs up to his chest, aiming to flip off the table, to run anywhere. No plan formed in his brain except _cook cook cook -_

His left foot smacked into Dr. Geier’s chin, and Stan hoped for him to stagger, falter enough to get around his bulking shape, before a huge grip closed violently around his ankle. Stan was tugged back onto the table, shirt riding up as it dragged across plastic coated leather. An arm pressed down against his chest, an unyielding bar as Stan struggled, “Rory, please,” The doctor said, before there was a sharp prick in Stan’s shoulder. He looked to see Rory passively pushing a plunger down, a low heat coiling through his veins.

“Troublemaker indeed,” Dr. Geier huffed, face dotted with sweat at the alarmingly strong maneuver. He held him for a moment longer, until Stan began to sag beneath him. Stan’s mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, sluggish and lead filled limbs rolled without response. It wasn’t like when he’d been taken, more artificial, less bearing into his soul. But horrible nonetheless, “Just a sedative,” The doctor said, “Nothing too intense, I’m just not keen on getting whapped again,”

“Softie,” Rory laughed, “Letting them relax instead of just -”

“My lunch is waiting to poison me,” Dr. Geier reminded, “If you’d please,”

The table shifted beneath Stan, one end rising up until it resembled a recliner. Stan still tried to jerk away, but his movements were weak, like an angry toddler. He was easily moved to where they wanted, propped into a slouched sitting position. Struggling from just that alone exhausted him, head heavy as it lolled. Dr. Geier pushed against his forehead until Stan’s body tipped back against the crinkled paper. Stan watched him drop back onto his stool and roll away to the far wall as Rory adjusted the stirrup again. It was slid beneath the table until it came to rest by Stan’s left arm.

He blinked at that, both trying to focus and understand the odd placement. Rory grabbed his hand, palm up, and put it into place, wrist laid and strapped into the cup. The bar was pulled out until Stan’s arm was taut. The band aid from the needle before looked up at him. She went beneath the table once more to pull straps from the edges. One long band went across Stan’s chest as another wrapped around his opposite wrist.

“Remind me the number?” Dr. Geier asked, fiddling with something on the other side of the room. Cabinet open beneath him and he hunched on his little stool.

“51186,” Rory chirped, and began to wipe down his entire forearm with another antiseptic wipe.

“51186,” The doctor reiterated, and a small metal tube was placed on the counter, obscured by the doctor’s massive build as he fiddled with it.

The room was quiet as Rory jotted down a few more notes, Stan secured and unable to shift much less run. The sedative wasn’t created any comfort, but it was making Stan drowsy. The scritch of pen across paper almost soothing as his eyelids began to drop. Only a soft drag against his soft skin woke him up enough to loll his head to Rory. She was dragged a razor down his arm, methodically wiping stray hairs away.

Stan felt much more awake at that, remembering how Beverly thought it was funny when men had a single patch of hair removed for a tattoo. No - they couldn’t - no way -

But Dr. Geier didn’t turn around with a needle or tattoo gun.

He turned around with a rod of cast iron.

The rod had a bar and the end, about two inches wide, glowing a cruel orange. A high keen left Stan’s throat, bubbling panic constricting his airways as the man rolled back over to his side. Rory did one final brush of the wipe across his skin before Dr. Geier leveled the metal just below Stan’s wrist.

"No," Stan pleaded, "Nonono, stop, I - _don't,"_

He threw every plea, every command he could. The two didn't move. 

“On three,” He offered, like Stan was a child getting a shot, “One…”

The brand pressed down. The scream that left Stan didn’t feel human, Stan hardly registered it at all. All he could feel was the horrible crackling sizzle of his arm, how it rolled against his skin, harsh pressure unbearable and never stopping and oh god -

It left him a moment later. Stan gasped, ragged heaves for air around a clogged throat. The skin was wiped once more and Stan shouted hoarsely at the drag of fibers against wound.

He looked at it. He didn’t want to but -

51186 in violent blistered pink stared back at him.

Stan wished he could pass out, faint and wake up on Richie’s couch - let the fever dream end. He threw up instead. Watery bile painting his shirt as Rory groaned in annoyance.

A bandage was wrapped around it. The stirrup released. Straps removed. Stan cradled his arm to his chest, palm against gauze like he could will it away.

“Oh, wait,” Rory said, and two hand gripped Stan’s nape before curling him forward. His forehead brushed the table, sweat dampening the paper beneath him. The position didn’t allow him to squirm, iron hold and sedative still coursing through him. Another horrible wipe glided along his spine, and Stan nearly shrieked at the idea of metal touching him once more. But instead he felt the pinch of a needle, wide and painful but quick. It left him and another band aid was placed.

The hands on his neck released him, and Stan tentatively reached up to feel the sore spot. A small bump dragged against his fingertips. He darted away from it, throat clogging up once more.

“A tracker,” Rory answered, “Not everyone needs to get stuck in a collar forever,” The cheer in her voice made Stan want to vomit again.

“How about some fresh clothes,” Dr. Geier said, “You slept through showers, but maybe Rory’ll make an exception,”

“Nah,” Rory said, “You’re clean enough. Just on the shirt, spilt milk. C’mon,” She tugged Stan to his feet, but they wobbled beneath him. He collapsed to the floor. Both of them staring at him, like they hadn’t caused all of this.

Rory reached beneath Stan’s arms and hefted him back into standing. He wobbled against her, unwilling to rely on her for balance but unable to move away. He eventually settled into her side as she walked them out of the room with a bright goodbye to Dr. Geier and down into the hall. It was just as empty as it’d been before.

They came to another room, thankfully not far, and Rory eased him down onto a bench before shuffling through some drawers. She looked to her right to another door and turned back to Stan, “If you need to pee or anything, feel free,” She gestured, “You can go in there, even shut the door, but they don’t lock,”

Stan figured as much, but nodded. It took her a moment to realize he wasn’t going to be able to get himself there. She laughed self deprecatingly with a, “Sorry, my bad,” Before helping him back up.

Only once the bathroom door clicked behind him did Stan allow himself to cry. Open weeping sobs. He didn’t allow himself to cry for long. Sniffling violently as his lower lip juddered. He peed only to spare himself the need to back with his roommate.

The toilet had no water, almost like an elegant porta-potty. It flushed when Stan pressed a button, but the water barely dragged along the edges of the bowl before stopping. When he went to wash his hands he found the sink didn’t allow his hands to fit beneath the faucet unless they were flat. There was no stopper, and the bowl was more like a curved plate - hardly an inch deep.

There was a mirror on the wall, beneath a thick layer of plastic. Stan figured if he punched it he’d only hurt his hand. Stan knew, logically, that he’d only been here three days. And if it was close enough to lunch then he’d barely passed seventy two hours.

His hair didn’t look any different, only matted with sweat. His stubble had come in slightly, a soft dusting that Beverly had said made him look cute. His clothes, while soiled with vomit, weren’t hanging off his frame any more than they’d done before.

He didn’t _look_ any different. But it felt wrong. He felt stilted. Like this was a version of him that shouldn’t be here. In this Center.

This was the captured Stan. The rogue stan. This was 51186.

Stan had adapted to a lot of things in his life. Isolation, self dependence, loss. But the 51186 in the mirror seemed to brittle to bend.

Rory knocked on the door as he stared, breaking him from his spiral. She opened it a moment later, but didn’t look concerned that he’d tried anything. Didn’t think he could anyway.

“Do a lot of guides try to kill themselves?” Stan asked.

“Well,” She hummed, sorting a small pile of clothes, “We’ve had issues with rogues. You’re in the rogue division, for obvious reasons,” A small chuckle, a pause like Stan would laugh too, “We room you together so you have a buddy,” Stan thought of the maniac who would be sleeping next to him, “Assure your surroundings are safe,” The sink he couldn’t drown himself in, “And keep a close eye to make sure you don’t act… irrationally,” The collar pressed as he swallowed.

A tee shirt, soft pants, briefs, and socks - all gray - were handed to him. Stan waited a moment, considered going back to the bathroom, before finally changing in front of her.

“Those are your sleep clothes. Normally you'd be dressed nicer, but you look like you need a nap,” She said, “When you change you’ll either be picked up and brought here or have your clothes brought to you. We gotta make sure you aren’t hiding anything irrational,”

Stan finished changing quickly, too drained to stew in her sharp gaze. She handed him a pair of slippers, and took his arm back over her shoulder to walk them both back to his room.

“Breakfast is at seven, lunch at noon, dinner at six. You’ll be granted different privileges with good behavior, but you’ll need to talk with - oh,”

A man stood at the end of the hall, easy long strides approaching the two of them. He was tapping away at a tablet before looking up. Stan stiffened, making Rory stumble as he refused the next step. The blue eyed man. The guide.

“Robert,” Rory greeted.

“I’ll be taking him now,” He simply said, smile wide. Eyes impossibly bright.

Rory didn’t argue, didn’t seem bothered at all, as she slipped from beneath Stan. Robert came up, towering over him, and offered his arm like a gentleman. Stan swayed where he was, not willing to pass himself off to the beast he knew this man was.

But his ankles shook, balance tilting.

_c ' mon , be a sport , stanley ._

Stan took the offering.

Robert smiled, “Let’s talk.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t-t-t-two new players enter the ring. poor stan. 
> 
> lemme know what you think, what you think is gonna happen, and if it sucked!


	12. шароит

When faced with… Robert once again; Stan had anticipated some kind of physical altercation. Saccharine smiles with benevolent ends. He wasn’t sure what exactly it would entail, just that it would be cruel. But. Robert was not.

Maybe the entire situation before had just been violence itself. Robert had not touched him more than a caress. It had been horrible, terrifying, but not actually an assault. It had been deeper than flesh, confrontation unnecessary when an echoed suggestion had knocked him unconscious. Rendering him helpless where batons and collars and Greta had failed.

Stan supposed Robert didn’t _need_ to be, which was a cruelty in its own right. Simply guiding Stan through gray halls, even gently tutting at the bandage around his wrist. Like a doting parent. Like he cared.

He’d called him Stanley. In his mind, rattling message through his nerves. But still. Stanley.

Not rogue. Not 51186.

Which was, as his roommate instructed, against the rules.

Stan could still feel his voice in this throat, not forced deep into him as his soul sank like before. But he didn’t want to test his luck. Raw skin still too fresh. So he followed him, pretending in the recesses of his mind it was of his own volition.

The room they landed at was an unnatural blend of regal and clinical. Thick tufted furniture sat in the center, rich green velvet shining in the soft light. It was a high rise chair with a small matching ottoman and chaise. A jug of water sat on a small table between them. An antique gramophone was tucked beside the armchair. A plush rug sat beneath it all, with antique lampshades creating an entirely detached atmosphere from its surroundings. It felt like a therapist’s office, like housewives could faint on the chaise as an old man jotted down their woes.

But the room itself was massive. The entire thing looked unfinished. High ceilings and exposed beams. Sharp edges and nothing nailed down. Nowhere else had contained so many resources to die.  The walk to the ‘office’ in the warehouse like room seemed too long, too spaced out. Stan’s slippered feet slapping lightly against overly polished concrete. The room had a strong smell of bleach. Stan tried not to dwell on it.

They finally reached the velvet oasis. Robert set a record to play. It was the only one, no other sleeves in sight. A gentle piano began to play, plucking the beginnings of Clair de Lune.

“Well, Stanley my boy, I’m sure you have a question or two,” Robert leered, voice tinkling in an eerie echo.

Stan had a question or two - or a thousand. But he bit back the first few _How dare you’s_ and _don’t touch me_ ’s, arm pulsing in a steady stinging reminder of what this place was capable of. Stan settled on a reasonable, not confrontative, half plead when a matted head of brown hair peaked from under the table.

“Who the fuck is that?” Stan gasped, unable to stop as the body spasmed, twitching in a fetal position. Stan reached for him but a sharp clap stilled his hand in the air.

“ _Hmm_?” Robert asked, like he hadn’t stopped Stan himself, twisting to look beneath him as he sprawled in his chair, balanced precariously on the edge, “Oh, _Eddie_ boy. Don’t worry,” A gasped sob spit out of the boy, “He’s alright,”

He didn’t look alright, he looked like he was barely alive. Stan’s eyes flicked back to him as his hand curled back against his chest, brows furrowing as the boy - Eddie - jerked, gasping like there was something clogging his airways.

“Has to learn,” Robert supplied, steepled fingers balancing his chin. His eyes rolled over Eddie, unblinking as he muttered, “Has to learn, has to _learn…_ gotta be a big boy, my Eds. Grow up _fast, faster still._ Can’t just float along the bank. Deep end, deep end,”

His eyes flicked back to Stan. Stan jolted, tense with the wide gaze of Robert boring into him. The hairs at his nape stood up, teeth clenched as neither seemed to breathe. Stan sure wasn’t.

“You’ll go to the deep end,” Robert whispered, smile pinching dimples into his cheeks, “You’ve already got a few under your belt, don’tcha, Stanley?”

Stan’s throat clicked, a pregnant pause as Robert seemed to wait for a response, “We’re not supposed to use our names,” Stan said instead, voice lilting up with nerves.

Robert’s face froze, suspended animation as he gazed at Stan. Then he began to laugh, childish and loud, booming off the unfinished walls. He curled in on himself, overcome with giggles, a mocking reflection of Eddie curled at the ground between them.

The laugh trickled away, and Robert made a show of wiping a tear away before answering, “Oh, Stanley, Stanley, _Stanley_ ,” Stan hated how his name sounded coming from him, “Does this look like the rest of The Center to you? Look like your little room with your little bed and its little straps? No. This is… _my_ room. I’m in charge of you kiddos, all my little wards,” Stan didn’t mention how he’d just turned twenty six.

“So you’re in charge?” Stan asked.

“No, no, no,” Robert sighed, “Guides can’t be in charge. Too volatile, too weak minded, too… simple. No, I’m just your watcher, your gatekeeper, your… buddy,” He smiled again, “Don’tcha wanna be buddies, Stanley?”

Stan did not fucking want that. Eddie wheezed on the floor.

He nodded.

“Good,” Robert hummed, seeming to settle into himself, much more the man he’d seen in Richie’s living room, “Good… So, house rules,” He lifted a finger, “First, that number on your wrist? Your identity. They’ll smile and coo and treat you sweet if you’re a good kid but that number is all you are anymore. Though, it seems you already picked up on that, probably Patrick - little menace -”

“Why don’t you have a number?” Stan asked, nearly biting through his tongue at how Robert’s eyes cut back to him.

Robert smiled, and showed his clean, unmarred wrists, “Recent addition, my idea. Guides can be so hard to spot, y’know? Especially those tricky little rogues, natural wallflowers. We always used numbers, Sentinels are free to rename when they pick one up. But why put a name to a face, hmm? Especially if you gotta be able to put it down,”

Put it down? Guides were rare, unexpendable, ever since the Trouble. They weren’t treated like citizens, Stan knew that, but…

The brand stretched as he twisted the hem of his shirt. Wrinkling it in a way that was sure to upset him later.

They were nothing more than animals. Marked like cattle.

“Now, second, training. All rogues are guides but not all guides are rogues. We gotta deal with the brats as they come, and you, Stanley - will need proper education. You will meet with me, once a day, for rehabilitation,” Stan looked down at Eddie, who had fallen unnaturally still, “Rogues need a special touch, a firm hand to help them come home,”

Stan genuinely couldn’t tell if Robert _meant_ anything he was saying. It was theatrical, how he illustrated imprisonment - full of indulgence. Robert was a guide, right? Yet he was part of all this. A big part. Eddie quivered between their feet.

Robert seemed to enjoy _that_ , at the very least.

_pay attention , stanley ._

It hit him like a slap. The muscles of his eyes burning from how fast his gaze met Robert’s own. He tried to blink. His eyes just watered.

“Deep end, Stanley,” Robert tutted, “No slacking at the bank, no floating by on me,”

Stan nodded, eyes pinned where they’d landed, and the tension behind them eased if only a bit. A shaking breath left him.

Robert wasn’t physical.

He was so much worse.

“Three,” Robert continued, “You will keep yourself presentable. Normally you’ll be in the finest of wears with those curls… hmm,” He pulled one, letting it spring back into Stan’s forehead, the panic of having him so close was the only thing that kept Stan from flinching away, “Might need a shave, huh, Stanley?” The hand grabbed Stan’s cheeks, squishing his face as Stan’s gaze was still held firm, “They like ‘em young, can’t lie. You’ve got a baby face, Eds too, so that’ll work at least.”

The grip left Stan, a gasp of relief heaving before he could control it. His eyes burned, dried out in the vintage dusky lights.

“Number, training, clothing; easy. Easy peasy,” Robert giggled, too fractured to quite be a proper laugh, “Now, dinner is coming up and there’s a little pill bug on my rug that needs sweeping,” His foot tapped Eddie, who nearly curled off the floor in retaliation, “So how ‘bout we finish this chit chat, hmm?” Palms up, extended, offering.

Stan opened his mouth, but no sound came. He blinked, realized he could blink, and rubbed his eyes until they felt right again. But nothing felt _right -_ nothing about this was right. He was in a room with a - a maniac and what looked like a violent coma patient, about to be sent to a different room with a different maniac who would hold him down again and his arm was _cooked_ and -

The tears weren’t a surprise. Not really. Stan was more just stunned he had the moisture to spare.

“Now don’t look _glum_ , Stanley my boy,” Robert tipped forward, tie dangling over Eddie’s shivering body. Stan watched it sway, ticking a silk woven metronome, “This is an opportunity. All this time you’ve been _wasting_ away without realizing how _special_ you are. So afraid of the dark, hiding in plain sight, feeling _weak_ when there’s so much potential you’re just ignoring. All the _Trouble_ , after all,” Robert said it like a slur, “There aren’t enough guides to supply the incoming generation, let alone the ones still crawling about. Trouble, trouble, all the guides caused Trouble!”

Sentinels had, actually. The guides just died over it.

How like them to write their own damnation.

“But, hey,” He smiled at Stan, “Sterilization didn’t take recessive genes into account. All those Leveled and Sentinels running around with the guide gene pumping into their little offspring. Staying dormant and hidden until _bam_!” His hands slammed into the table, nearly toppling it onto Eddie, “A miracle baby! And you, Stanley, are a miracle,”

Stan didn’t think any part of him was a miracle. He was the result of persecuted recessive genetics that had paired in just a way that made him a target. His DNA had stripped him of his rights, left to be thrown to a pit of Sentinels scrambling for relief from their own hubris.

Palms dragged across the table, a high squeak as the skin dragged against grain, “And there is _nothing_ ,” The hands found Stan’s knees, “I hate _more,_ ” dragging up along his flank until Stan’s throat was cradled, “Than a wasted effort.”

Stan froze, pulse pounding as his lungs begged for air. Robert was all he could see, manic blue eyes staring at him, into him, through him. Something splintered in Stan. A haggard breath sucked between chattering teeth.

“I want to go home,” Stan cracked.

“Oh, buddy,” Robert cooed, “That isn’t going to happen.”

It was, at least, the first honest thing he’d heard.

 

\-----

 

Eddie was - dropped didn’t seem like the right word - _aggressively placed_ into Stan’s arms. Robert made it clear he didn’t like wasted effort, and Eddie seemed to be “Nothing but, lately,” So Eddie curled in Stan’s arms, the latter nearly sweating to keep him upright after all the whiplash of the last few hours. Robert had let him cry for about ten seconds before a sharp clap smacked next to his ear. He didn’t need another wasted effort on his hands, and Eddie was a solid enough poster boy for repercussions to get Stan to swallow his sobs.

Stan had almost requested an orderly to take him, to free his wrist from chafing against bandages as Eddie squirmed and wheezed. Robert even offered as he strolled next to them both. But the idea of throwing him to someone like Rory set Stan’s hair on end.

It might’ve been a test, the way Robert’s eye glinted when Stan refused. But it didn’t feel right either way. So Stan shifted his grip, and wobbled on.

Eddie was tiny, freckled skin coating his arms and face. The dots were fading, mismatched patchworks of coloration and depth, like he didn’t get enough sun to sustain anymore. He didn’t look any older than Stan, but his stature and round face made it hard to tell. Stan guessed his eyes were massive, if he’d ever open them.

He seemed out of whatever terror he’d been in but shivering with aftershocks. His polo untucked from his beltless khakis. He didn’t have a collar, same as Stan’s roommate. A small piece of his hairline was shaved away, along his nape.

One thing that did seem remarkably out of place was a fanny pack. It was tightly strapped to his hips, with a key along the buckle. He wouldn’t be able to get it off himself, no chance of a noose - Stan supposed.

The hallway was still barren, but all the doors were open - save a few. Open access seemed like a delusion, but actually seeing the endless sets of beds at least made him feel less alone. The thought felt cruel, to be happy he wasn’t the only person in this hell. He squeezed Eddie tighter.

They came across a door, Robert’s clicking heels ceasing as Stan stumbled to not walk ahead - not give any reason for the collar around his neck to go off or whatever alternative Robert found suitable. The room was hardly remarkable, blending to the wall around it. Maybe that made it harder to run; no sense of direction beyond a few offices.

The room was identical to Stan’s own, but only one bed looked touched. He placed Eddie there, attempting to prop him up before simply letting him lie down. Stan hadn’t liked lying on his bed, but then again the cuffs probably hadn’t helped.

Robert didn’t follow them into the room, looming in the entryway, backlit, hair glowing as strands escaped the manicured quaff. He simply smiled at Stan, then dropped his gaze to Eddie’s prone form.

The ease wasn’t directed at Stan, but some horrible ripple shot through him regardless as Eddie’s eyes flew open, a noiseless gasp retching from his throat. Just the proximity was enough. Robert looked satisfied at that, amused as he bowed and turned away. Stan allowed himself to breathe then, no immediate threat in his peripherals. Eddie seemed to find Stan threatening enough, the back of a hand connecting solidly to Stan’s ear as he toppled off the bed. Eddie’s eyes darted wildly around him as Stan shook off the ringing in his nerves.

“Wait, I’m,” Another hand flew out, Stan dodged in lieu of intercepting. Grabbing would only make it worse, “I’m - it’s okay,” It really wasn’t, Eddie didn’t look like he believed him either, “I - Eddie,” Stan stressed, voice a whisper around forbidden syllables.

Eddie paused at that, but didn’t still, too full of nervous ticking energy. Which seemed to be a stunning contradiction to the rest of him. He looked ill, almost. Exhaustion seeping from his pores, yet unable to let himself rest. His eyes flicked between Stan’s own, going from desperate to questioning. He didn’t say anything.

Stan tried again, now that flailing - and surprisingly strong - limbs were out of the equation, “R-Robert made me carry you,” Eddie flinched at the name, “I don’t know what’s going on, I -”

Eddie moved and Stan braced for impact. But all he did was unzip his fanny pack, a small notepad and pen tucked inside. He flipped a few pages, before scribbling inside it

NAME

“I… mine?”

YES

“Stan,” He offered, “Stanley. I’m Stanley,” Eddie nodded, and Stan nodded back, “Do you have a roommate?”

NO  
SOLITARY

“That almost sounds nice,” Stan hummed, images long black hair taunting over him.

WHO IS YOUR’S

“Uh, 161 - something,” He guessed, “Black hair, tall, psychotic,”

PATRICK

The name felt too formal to suit him, but Stan nodded in thanks at that. There were too many numbers to track, “Yeah, Patrick,”

KILLED PEOPLE

“He said so, yeah,” Stan whispered. He didn’t mention how Patrick had known Stan had as well.

Eddie’s eyes flicked to his wrist, frown deepening at the bandage there.  He went to write before stopping. The pen tapped the page, ink digging through layers until he grunted and nearly ripped through the paper with,

HOW DID THEY CATCH YOU

Stan didn’t know. It had been too fast, too blurry in his head, out of focus around the horribly sharp image of Greta. “I was in a house, a Sentinel - Richie. I think someone followed us, maybe?”

RAT

“Who, Ri… No. No, that isn’t,”

SENTINEL

“Yeah, but,”

Eddie underlined the last two lines. A snarl across his face. His hand smacked the page when Stan sat up with a rage in his eyes. The echo made them both jump. Stan looked at Eddie’s wrist, shaking from how he white knuckled the page. 54495.

“You’re the one who tried to kill Ben,”

Eddie, for the first time since Stan had seen him writhing on the rug, was still. Completely, horribly still. His eyes widened. He went to write, but Stan was already speaking.

“You suffocated him, I saw him at the hospital - “ The notebook was shoved into Stan’s face.

HE’S ALIVE?

The text was ambiguous in intention. Whether disappointed or hopeful, Stan couldn’t tell until he looked back at Eddie’s face. He looked nervous, worried. An anger that looked misplaced, jamming to mask whatever war was waging in his mind, spasmed across Eddie’s expression.

“Yeah,” Stan whispered, “Yeah, he’s okay,”

Eddie didn’t sag off the bed, but it was a near thing.

“What... “ Stan hesitated, but Eddie looked at him, nodding to continue, “What happened? Ben said you could talk - before,”

Eddie didn’t write. His eyes distant as Stan worried he’d crossed something. But, they knew each other’s names and that was about the only line there seemed to be here. Eddie eventually wrote, hand soft across the page, ink barely marking.

ROGUE

Stan had figured as much, he’d been in the room with Robert after all. But Eddie nodded at him, and Stan answered, “Y-yeah, I guess,”

THEY’LL GET YOU TOO

“They already did,” Stan joked, but it felt cutting on his tongue.

Eddie shook his head, writing furiously as a soft beep echoed through the room.

THEY’LL FIND A REASON  
PRETEND YOU EARNED IT

“Earned what?” Stan asked, “What happened to you? Ed -”

A howl left Stan, nearly biting through his own tongue as electricity ravaged through him. Rory stood in the doorway, smaller than Robert had been but no less menacing.

“When you’re bad, 51186,” She reminded, and grabbed Stan’s arm to pull him up off the bed, “Back to rooms after dinner,” Stan, still shaking, didn’t think it wise to mention they hadn’t eaten.

Rory took the notebook from Eddie, scanned the page, and tapped her wristband. Eddie didn’t make any noise when he seized, but that made it somehow so much worse.

“Just because you can’t talk doesn’t mean you can write bad things,” She sighed.

Stan watched Eddie try to collect himself as the door slid shut. Rory had kept his notebook. Stan stumbled along beside her, knees shaking as grey doors slid shut around them.

There was no light on in his room. The soft glow of the hallway cutting away as the door slid and clicked behind him. Stan let himself drop back against the door before a small shock shot through him. He jerked away, wobbling against the foot of his bed.

Stan didn’t like the dark. Monsters from childhood imaginings that twisted into adolescent paranoia crept in the darkest pieces of seamless surroundings. But the dark didn’t have Robert. Or Rory.

“Hey, kiddo,”

It did have Patrick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this really is just becoming a mass of character introductions fhsdifhdoifh
> 
> eds is HERE and he's not SUPER JAZZED ABOUT IT
> 
> lemme know what you think, if it sucks, predictions


	13. sargs

"I hurt someone before," Stan said, voice muffled against Richie's stripped shirt. The latter groaned with sleep, half awake but trying to be responsive, "When I was a kid,"

"Kids're dicks," Richie mumbled, shifting Stan as they sprawled across the couch.

"No, I," Stan paused long enough for Richie to crack open a sleep crusted eye, "I really hurt him. I -"

"It's okay," Richie hummed, it was easy enough to assume the context by the look on Stan's face, "You were a kid, right?"

"Yeah..." He relented, but seemed nervous still. Richie kissed his forehead, softly biting a brow when Stan snuffled a laugh.

"You were just scared," Richie promised, "No one can hold you to that," 

"Bill could," Stan said, voice barely a mumble.

"Hmm?" Richie said, falling back into sleep already.

"Nothing," Stan said. He pulled Richie closer against him, "Go back to sleep,"

"Oh, that goes without saying," Richie hummed, "Gimme a few hours more before reality has to set in,"

Stan snorted, "Sure thing. All the hours you want, days even,"

They'd gotten nine. 

 

\-----

 

His nose was probably broken. He couldn’t really see it, but the pain seemed telling enough, firing shocks of minor agony across his eye sockets. Blood dripped down, puddling against his shirt. Faded stripes discolored with a vibrant red that crusted into maroon. It looked bad which felt extra shitty since that  was - had been - a great shirt. The blood wasn’t even centered, dribbling along the outer edge of his lip, cocked askew from how his head lolled when he’d passed out. Unsymmetrical contamination.

Stan would’ve hated it.

Richie licked his upper lip again, tasting pennies as he halfheartedly tried to stop the trickle. It wasn’t comfortable, itching as it dried against day old stubble. It cracked when he scrunched his face up enough, but the twing of pain wasn’t worth it. He couldn’t move to wipe it away, hands cuffed to the chair beneath him. He was too tall for the link allowance and his shoulders pulled taut beneath him. He already didn’t come across as broad, he imagined he looked sort of like an actual stick now.

He couldn’t even see what a sad sack of shit he must exhibit. The lights in the room were off, leaving Richie in stifling darkness. It had taken what could’ve been somewhere between an hour or a day - the lack of light was not super in favor of time telling - for Richie’s eyes to adjust enough to make out a semblance of shapes. There was a mirror across from him, covering the expanse of the wall. At least, Richie assumed it was a mirror. That or a floating head in his beat-to-shit likeness just sort of… staring at him.

Richie snorted, half formed jokes and characters flitting through his head as he tried to make any of this funny. A bleeding man handcuffed to a chair in the dark, the boy he loved who might’ve loved him back dragged away in a van while he just watched like a fucking jackass? Hilarious. Standing ovation.

The blood dripped down. It pooled with the rest.

No. Richie supposed it wasn’t funny at all.

The lights didn’t shoot up around him, but slowly brightened until a soft glow filled the room. It was almost worse - hazy luminosity not quite making anything in focus or definition.

A door to his right opened, a young man entered the room. He looked young, sleeves rolled up and a tie loose around his neck. His legs seemed abnormally thin, pants fluttering around his calves, never touching skin. The door slid shut behind him. Richie sucked in a breath as he turned to face him. A long scar ran along his face, one brow nearly gone from scar tissue. It curled down past his lip and into the edge of his jaw. He looked like he could’ve been handsome, somehow still was. His right arm moved stiffly, two fingers missing from that hand, as he carried a packed manilla file.

The dropped two folders between them: one thin one with _Tozier, Richard Wentworth - SENTINEL_ , and a significantly thicker one with _Uris, Stanley Thomas - ROGUE 51186_ printed neatly along the side. Richie watched him sit, and tried to not stare as he tugged his pant legs up to drop into his chair. Two metal ankles stared back.

“Now,” he said, spinning the files to face himself, “Richard ‘Richie’ Tozier. We both know why you’re here. Same page is important,” he leaned forward, elbows propping up their head, “Let’s agree to no stupid questions, huh? Not waste anyone’s time?”

“Sure thing,” Richie spit.

“Good,” He laughed. He didn’t seem menacing, which was off putting in its own way. Friendly almost, buddy like; rolled sleeves and all. If it weren’t for the handcuffs and cracked cartilage, Richie could almost pretend they were buds catching up at a bar, “So,” The man began, reading through the Richard file, “Knowledge and possession of a rogue - not a great start. But, considering the lack of familial relation and recent coupling, I think we can go with an ‘easing influence’ since that tends to be the situation,” He pat the files, “Rogues can be tricky, get in the head, y’know? We know that you didn’t do anything wrong,”

“What are you, a lawyer?” Richie asked.

“No,” The man chuckled, sheepishly scratching along his scar, “No law degree. Not bright enough for that, just,” He tapped the case files, “Involved in the resolution of this conflict. Normally we’d pass it off to a court - we’ll drop you at a station soon, for discretion only - but given your… status, both in the public eye and genetically, we’re trying to keep this from becoming ‘a thing’” He even used air quotes. He was effortlessly charming. Richie wanted to punch him. The table was narrow, maybe he could manage a kick to the dick.

“You know,” Richie began, blood dripping over his lip, staining his teeth, “If you’re going for a good cop interrogation feel - y’usually need a bad cop too. Maybe better lighting, spa ambiance isn’t really solid torture vibes,”

“This isn’t an interrogation, we’re just talking,” He said, voice easy.

“Yeah,” Richie snorted, “Talking, right,” His skin itched, buzzing beneath his pores, “That why you cracked my nose?”

“From the looks of the report, you did that to yourself.”

“Because Center reports are probably brimming with factual integrity,” Richie laughed. It made his nose ache deeper.

“Well, enlighten me,” The man offered. It wasn’t even said sarcastically. The dick.

“Yeah, I was really itching to slam my own face into a baton, real fetish of mine. Don’t kinkshame me,”

“The famous do tend to have weird fantasies,” He laughed, “But harboring a rogue isn’t usually one of them,”

“Where is he?”

“I thought we agreed to no stupid questions, Tozier,” His hair fell over his eye, “You know he’s a murderer, right?”

Richie didn’t let his face twitch, “What?”

The man opened the file, flipping a few pages before beginning to read, “Greta Hannah Keene. Age 28. Marked deceased on January 10th, 8:21 AM. Cause,” He looked up at Richie, “Ruptured spinal cord,”

Richie didn’t remember that. Anything beyond the flashbang had been difficult, only Stan’s voice echoing in his head - begging him for… Richie shook his head.

“How do you suppose Stan managed that with four people on top of him?”

He smiled, leaning in like he was sharing a secret, “Do you know what a guide does?”

“They ease,” Richie droned, brow lifting.

“No, well - yeah, but, do you know what that actually _means_?”

“They,” The word help came like conditioning, “Y’know you look itching to let me know, don’t wanna ruin your reveal,”

The man snorted, “Easing is a label for it. A quick coverall definition. A guide,” his right hand reached between them, middle finger poking Richie’s forehead. Richie tried to lean away, but his taut arms didn’t allow it, “Fluctuates the nerve system. Can stimulate or dull our sensors and functions. They’re kids when it starts, volatile and edgy,” His throat clicked, eyes going distant, “Uncooperative. But The Center reels that in, we _help_ them so they can help us. Give and take,”

“Imprisonment seems like a lot of take,” Richie hissed, the other man’s nail digging into his skin.

“Well an unchecked guide can only become a rogue,” He clucked his tongue, “No limitations set makes it worse, sometimes uncontrollable. Normally they’ll level out on their own, plateau their instincts. Fear plays a big part in that, they don’t want to get caught -”

“- _Kidnapped_ -”

“- _So_ they stagnate until a little slip up and then they’re safe and sound with people who can help them. But, rogues like _Stanley_ ,” The nail edge broke skin, “Just keep getting worse and worse until they’re able to make you snap your own neck. Complete control over your nervous system is a big thing, Richie. It bleeds into control and fluctuation of adrenaline, hormones, you fucking name it. He can make your heart stop, set off a nerve ending so violently your bones snap in reflex, even suppress and negate memories,” Richie must’ve twitched. The hospital closet; Stan had nearly managed that, “Looks like _that_ one’s a sore spot. Now,” He laughed, hand retracting, a sheepish smile on his face, “You tell me how that’s safe for anyone,”

Richie thought of Stan - of Stanley. Wild blonde curls and sleepy hazel eyes with an insistent blush freckling his cheeks and nose no matter how hard he denied it. How he’d dote after Bev and Richie, hiding his concern under flat toned insults. How he retorted and snap backed at all of Richie’s jokes with a look like he knew what Richie was always trying to say. How he felt in Richie’s arms, tucked against his chest, snickering into his collar as Richie tried anything to make him laugh. How he was so strong and brave and still so undeservingly kind.

“He killed a woman not hours ago,” The man spit, “A senseless act of violence and unchecked -”

“It sounds,” Richie drawled, dried blood flaking from his chin, “Like she deserved it.”

The man stood up, a look of betrayal in his eyes. Richie just stared at him.

“Stan wouldn’t hurt me,” Richie said, voice calm, even, “Stan wouldn’t hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. If you viewed him as anything close to a human being you’d see it too.”

“Did he ever tell you about the quarry?”

Richie blinked, “The what?”

The man whipped deeper into the endless file, pages yellowing with age until landing on two school photos, “At age twelve, Stanley Uris has been linked to the attack of a Sentinel,”

“You attack kids all the time, can’t handle the ‘give and take’ of that?”

“The Sentinel was also twelve. Just realizing their abilities, overwhelmed and scared. Turning to their only friend for - for _help_ , and what does Mr. Uris do? Throw him off a cliff,”

“Stan wouldn’t -”

“The Sentinel was fished out of the quarry _eleven hours later_ , Stanley didn’t report the ‘accident’ until 7:41 AM. He just sat and w-watched the sunrise before even thinking to help his friend,”

“He was scared,” Richie defended.

“They both were!” The man boomed, Richie flinched away, “They were - they w-w-were kids, a-and he let him f-fall! He p-p-pushed him!” The man bent across the table until he was all Richie’s peripherals could see, “The moment St-Stanley Uris realized w-w-what he was he used it for violence. He attacked and a-attempted to murder a child w-who didn’t know what was happening.”

“How the fuck would you know that?” Richie hissed, “Did you even think to ask him?”

“I remember the rocks b-below well enough to n-n-not need a statement,” The man spit.

Richie started, eyes widening as the man backed up, adjusting his tie, collecting the files, “You -”

“Rogue investig-gator Bill Denbrough,” He said, eyes distant and cold, stutter fading as he collected himself. A phone chimed sharply in the suffocating silence that followed. Bill reached into his pocket and sighed, “Your bail was placed at $400,000 and paid. There’s someone waiting for you in the front. You’re free to go.”

“What about Stan?” Richie demanded, shoulders straining as he tried to follow.

“Considering this interview,” Bill said, voice slow and deliberate as he worked through the lapse in diction, “And your open objection and detestation to the guide community -”

“- I’m disgusted with _you_ -”

“- Plus accepting your public image as a drug addict in lieu of owning up to your birthright. You are unfit to possess the rogue 51186,”

“He has a name,” Richie spit, “He has a fucking name and you know it - you _know him -!”_

“He’s an enemy of the state,” Bill said, “And I’m not going to let him hurt anyone else.

The door slid open, Richie heard a sickening pop as he tried to throw himself forward. The chair was bolted down.

Bill turned back as the door slid shut, the easy smile from before no longer meeting his eyes.

“I’ve suffered enough because of him.”

 

\-----

 

No one came to let him out, whether to make him calm down or stew in his rage - Richie wasn’t sure. But eventually he was slowly guided away from the room. He looked for Bill, but the asshole was nowhere to be seen. The sterile interrogation suite which lead to a blank hallway finally opened to a nearly cozy front room. Potted plants scattered about with bobble heads lining a receptionist’s desk. She wore a cardigan and no body armor. The guard hadn’t even followed him through the doors. Leaving him standing dumbly like he’d wandered through a portal.

Chase was fiddling with his phone on a faded love seat, probably playing some game he needlessly dumped money into. He didn’t even look up, holding out a finger until finally standing and walking out the blinds covered door with an oddly confident gait.

“Thanks for the bail,” Richie mumbled, steps heavy as he followed him to a town car.

“Your money,” He scoffed, and hopped into the back. Richie looked up at the building, blindly hoping it was The Center, that he could map a way back into where the floors stopped having windows.

He was greeted with a bland brick complex, isolated in the middle of a town that probably had ten streets, three stories with multiple businesses plastered along glass doors and overhangs. Tax filing offices and office supply stores. The doors they just left were labelled _Henderson & Park. _No indication of what went on inside.

“Annoying remote location,” Chase complained, “All off the grid with their bullshit, you better. Make sure your accountant is good so your taxes don’t go to this,” He waved dismissively in the direction of the building as Richie climbed in.

Richie didn’t have a response, the fight drained out of him at Bill’s threat. It couldn’t have been anything but one. The itch in his skin persisted, spreading along veins and nerves until he felt coated. He was shakier than usual, unable to decide if it was shock or whatever else. Stan would’ve fixed it. He had to get to The Center, fill out all those forms he’d thrown away. There had to be a few loopholes at least -

“Had your fun then?” Chase asked, back to his phone.

“What?” Richie asked.

“We’ll get you a new one,” Chase promised, “Clean, behaved, proper. Red carpet cute, I swear. Set those jitters to rest - Christ, you look like a tweaker. Clean your face,” He tossed a handkerchief to Richie. It just fell to his lap.

“What fun?” He asked again.

“With the rogue,” Chase scoffed, “I’d hoped you’d have at least gotten laid for your trouble. That nose isn’t even made for radio. All that fucking cuddling, unbelievable,”

The building hadn’t stated rogue business on it. How had he known to come here? To pay bail before he’d been placed in a jail? They wouldn’t have said anything to Chase. Not if they were keeping it quiet like Bill had said. Static began to buzz in the back of Richie’s skull, jaw moving as he tried to - tried to -

“What are you talking about?”

“The feed was just,” He shook his head, “I mean, it had to be done.”

“ _What_ had to?” Richie insisted, the ringing in his ears becoming deafening. The itch beneath his skin like sandpaper. Chase’s voice was barely audible.

“The only way to get you into the public eye is just being open about it. A junkie doesn’t make anyone look good. And a rogue is even worse,”

No, they’d - they’d be followed, the raid had come out of nowhere, “What the fuck did you do?” Richie gasped.

“What we both needed, man,” Chase sighed, “There was already a case building, suits showing up at my door when those photos leaked. Just a few bugs in the house to keep the moths company.”

“You bugged my house -”

“- And _you_ handed over a rogue and can finally register for a proper guide! Bad image behind you, nothing says good behavior like bringing one of those 'home', right? Get that funky head of yours together, big leagues kid - we’ll be back in the game!”

Richie could taste bile.

“Stop the car.”

“Rich - man, c’mon,”

“Stop the car.”

“It’s just a ro-”

“Stop the _fucking_ car!”

The driver must’ve heard him through the partition, voice booming with a splintering crack. The car swerved right, both of them sliding in their seats as it came to an abrupt stop. Chase jumped at it and looked, for the first time, actually concerned. He should be fucking concerned - Richie was going to _kill him_ -

His fist cracked down into Chase’s eye socket before his brain could bother to keep up, knuckles and cheek both splitting skin until a sharp _crack_ rang through the suffocating space. Chase was shouting. Richie couldn’t even hear him. The windows just showed desert, endless shrubs and vacant sky.

He punched once, twice more - something in Chase’s face was _definitely_ broken, before kicking the door open. The seatbelt strangled Chase before he could manage to unclip it as Richie threw him out of the car.

“Don’t you fucking -!”

The door slammed shut in his face. Richie kicked the partition and the driver sped off again.

Richie didn’t look look back at Chase. He couldn’t even breathe. The buzzing in his bones insatiable as his nerves fired off. Everything was too bright, too loud, too much too muchtoomuch -

Richie finally inhaled on a sob. His shoulders dropped, cradling his eyes with bloody hands as he cried. He squeezed his head, begging for sympathy from the strain. But none came. Stan wasn’t there.

Stan wasn’t there.

 

\-----

 

The driver dropped him at The Falcon. Richie didn’t remember asking to go there, but the car skidded away the moment his feet touched pavement. He couldn’t find it in himself to feel bad about it. The marquee lights were blinding. Light spreading like fire across the walls. He squeezed his eyes shut, fingers spasming until he forced them into fists.

Beverly met him at the door, hair wild and grease streaked like she hadn’t showered. Her eyes were manic, wide as she ran to him.

“Where is he?” She asked, voice hushed and stilted.

“He -” Richie swallowed, voice rough from screaming, “Gone.”

Bev stepped back, hands tightening on his shoulders. It hurt. It hurt so much, fingers like needles against his hot skin even with layers between, “What do you mean gone? What did you do?”

Mike met them as Richie’s silence stretched on, “Not here,” He hissed, and pulled the three of them into the back room. Beverly’s grip didn’t leave Richie, “Where is Stan?” Mike asked calmly, but his shoulders were taut.

Richie looked at the blood on his own shirt. Askew and foul and wrongwrongwrong.

“He’s gone. They took him.”

“He was with you,” Beverly insisted.

"I know." Richie said. 

“Why didn’t you _do_ something?”

“Beverly,” Mike tried, but the redhead released Richie only to slam her fists against his chest.

“You should’ve _helped_ him - He trusted you,” A bubbling sob was wetting her voice, words thick as she hit him over and over.

“I’m sorry,” Richie gasped, too many synapses firing as he collapsed to the ground. Beverly followed, nearly shrieking as she smacked him again and again.

Richie’s skin was on fire, noise blurring into a cacophony of slurs. Bev’s hair too sharp, crystallized fire whipping too fast as his eyes watered from more than just the hits. He didn’t try to stop her, even as his nose split open once more, filling his nostrils with a horrible copper. Mike was trying to pull her off, but even as her body was lifted kicks shot down into his stomach.

The ringing in his ears was visible now. A dingy creep against his peripherals that sank deeper and deeper into a horrible black. Beverly faded from view, only static coating his corneas as his eyes rolled back.

Maybe she’d let him die. Unable to claw his way up, out of the assault.

He hadn’t helped when Stan tried.

A sharp stabbing filled his nostrils, fragrance punching past the blood and making everything come to horrible adrenaline fussed clarity with a _pop_. Mike was above him, smelling salts shoved beneath Richie’s nose. Beverly was across the room, crouched in a chair. Her shoulders were heaving. She wouldn’t look at him.

“Are you alright?” Mike asked softly. Richie just cracked through a laugh.

“When did he get taken?” Beverly rasped.

“This morning,” Richie mumbled, unable to lift his head from the carpet quite yet, “There was a guide there, another one. I couldn’t move,”

Beverly stared at him. He didn’t see mercy in her eyes.

“That’s not your fault,” Mike consoled.

“I watched him,” Richie gasped, tears cutting down to his hairline, “I watched him scream. He tried to get me to move, but - there -”

“We get it,” Beverly said, soft voice, “It’s,” Her throat clicked, “We get it.”

Richie wobbled upright, Mike’s hands warm but suffocating against him, “I don’t -” He gagged, head lolling. This felt like the withdrawals people always claimed he’d had. Skin crawling, eyes hot, even his hair hurt, “We can’t leave him there,” He begged them both, “We need to get him out. We need to,” Bring him home, “Save him - he’ll die in there,”

“Richie,” Mike hushed. Richie flinched in his grip and Mike pulled back, only trying to steady him as Richie babbled.

“He’ll die - we,” He gasped for air, lungs flitting between contractions, “We need to save him,”

Beverly crossed the room, and Richie nearly begged for a hit that could knock him out. Instead, she cupped his cheek, thumb dragging through crackled blood.

“We will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how about that spicy POV switch up hoifhsfios
> 
> please leave a comment, lemme know what you think - if it sucks and all that.
> 
> thank you noelle for talking in my ear promising to send me hate mail so all my predictions could come true


	14. alleviare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, dudes. i'm so sorry this update took so long. i got slammed in real life and have been trying to be super on top of that. i'll update this soon, for sure. it'll be a max two week per update from now on.
> 
> anyway, enjoy! or don't! i don't own you.

Eddie might be the rudest and funniest person Stan had ever met. He’d probably be even ruder if he could talk.

They’d given him a pen, which Stan had thought originally to avoid the need to sharpen a pencil. But it had been for permanence. Eddie couldn’t erase what he wrote. So he could be punished just as if he’d said it. At least every third response to _anything_ Stan said was met with a quick flick to his notebook, then a lengthy pause as he debated the repercussions of his word choice, then a small, HA, in place of whatever he’d meant.

It felt like a secret language, Eddie’s expressions bridging the language barrier to occasionally even make Stan snort on a laugh and forget where they were.

It had been a week. Technically ten days, but Stan didn’t count when he was unconscious both because he hadn’t been aware and he didn’t want to add time to his imprisonment. Eddie was a solace here. He reminded Stan of Beverly in a lot of ways, sharp and funny, even when he couldn’t voice it. Stan could see why Ben liked him so much. Eddie asked about him, about what he did, where he worked - mainly drank whiskey and an architect, respectively. It was sweet how enamored Eddie seemed to be, though he became prickly if Stan pointed that out.

The days would almost bleed together if Stan weren’t so hyper aware of his surroundings. Sleep, avoid Patrick until Rory showed up, try to avoid Rory touching him as he changed, breakfast, Robert, lunch, Eddie, dinner, sleep again.

Eddie was undoubtedly part of the schedule. He was directly brought to his room, there was no question to it. It made them jumpy around each other for the first few days, both thinking the other to be a mole. But Robert of all people explained that roommates were designed to control impulsive behavior in guides. Stan wasn’t meshing with his own and Eddie didn’t have one due to ‘outbursts’ so the two had been paired simply to keep each other from going insane.

There were other guides, at least three dozen in their sector alone, but he only saw them during meals. And no one spoke during those. Too nervous to set someone in uniform off.

There were tests intermingled in the schedule too. Follow up medical exams, psychological tests, even a learning assessment. They’d looked a little annoyed that Stan had done well at the last one, since most guides didn’t get a seventh grade education if caught in a timely manner, let alone a year of college.

Robert’s tests were the worst though. He’d push and ease his way into Stan’s psyche, rooting around in his head until Stan thought he would die. Frozen or seizing on the floor, unable to control his own actions. He was simply told to stop fighting. It seemed counter intuitive, and Stan had said as much in a strangled gasp before being sent back under.

Eddie told him that that would stop soon. It was a fear tactic. Stan pointed out that fear tactics didn’t normally involve actual damage, just threats. Eddie snorted like he was an idiot.

DOES ANYTHING ABOUT THIS PLACE SEEM ETHICAL

Stan assumed he’d gotten punished for that when they reviewed his book. But Eddie’d looked too proud for Stan to damper it.

Robert’s training would morph into more of a conversational tone, with the torture being used as a repercussion if disobedient.

HE TRAINS US FOR SENTINELS  
TO LISTEN TO ORDERS

“Can you… _ease_ what you want to say to me?” Stan offered, “Like put the thought in my head?”

WE’RE NOT TELEPATHS DUMBASS

Stan laughed. Eddie wheezed a strange sort of snicker.

YOU’LL START SESSIONS SOON

The idea of random Sentinels who bought into this whole system coming to try and buy Stan was not something Stan was keen to begin. Jury was still out on if Robert or that would be worse. Eddie went to screenings sometimes. He usually came back exhausted, wobbling and twitching in aftershocks of disobedience.

Stan liked to think he wouldn’t give in either, would resist even when hell came crashing down on him. But Stan thought he would break first. Too stiff and uncentered to bend anymore.

He’d confided in Eddie about it a few days before, about how he felt shaky and heavy at the same time. How his chest ached like when he’d first met Richie but instead of easing, the tug only felt harsher with each breath. BOND DROP Eddie had written. Richie was probably feeling it too. But Stan didn’t mention Richie around Eddie anymore. Eddie would just write RAT until Stan walked out.

Stan needed Eddie too much to risk building a wall between them.

“Have you seen Ben at all?”

OFF HIS LIST

“But you’re compatible, right? Compatibility outweighs everything,”

ATTEMPTED MURDER CARRIES WEIGHT TOO

“... he knows you didn’t mean it,” Stan said, “He didn’t blame you,”

HE SHOULD

“Did you mean it?” Stan pressed. Eddie stared at the wall for a long moment.

NO

“He knows that. He was worried about you,” They both sat, knees pressed against each other as they huddled close so Stan wouldn’t be heard into the hallway, “Why did you attack him?”

ANGRY

“Quick question, are you capable of writing complete sentences?”

Eddie flipped him off. He kept the notebook tight to his chest, scribbling with a sneer at Stan that just made him smile.

I WAS UPSET WITH WHAT HAPPENED. HE WAS THE FIRST SENTINEL I SAW AND I LASHED OUT WITHOUT THINKING. I DIDN’T EVEN REALIZE I’D DONE IT UNTIL HE WAS ON THE FLOOR. I DIDN’T MEAN FOR IT TO BE HIM, BUT I JUST NEEDED TO HURT SOMEONE.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Stan asked.

Eddie hesitated, not going to the notebook but instead gesturing to his neck. He shook his head and put down the pen. Stan nodded; it wasn’t anything he could write down. Eddie tried to mouth words, but Stan couldn’t decipher what exactly he was trying to say.

“Your neck? You don’t have a collar, neither does Patrick,” Stan guessed, Eddie nodded, gesturing more fervently, “Collars go on rogues, why did they remove it?”

Eddie shook his head.

“Did you not have one at all? Ben said you did,”

Eddie began to smack the back of his neck, mouth moving too fast for Stan to attempt to understand.

“Eddie, calm down, I don’t know what you’re trying to say-” Eddie finally stopped, tears building in his eyes that swam with frustration and rage. He finally took the pen again and grabbed Stan’s wrist.

In thin letters he wrote along his forearm,

PROCEDURE

Eddie was furiously wiping the word away with a spit licked thumb, eyes on the door. Only a blue smudged _P_ remained when Rory walked in to collect Stan.

 

\-----

 

“What’s this?”

Stan didn’t need to look down to see Rory inspecting the smudge across his ever paling skin. He hardly got sunlight before being locked up, in a month he’d be translucent.

“Nothing,"

“51186,” She pressed in her horrible parental tone. She couldn’t be more than a year older than him, if she was older than him at all.

“I was looking at his notebook, I got ink on myself. It was wet. Transferred onto me,”

“Who?” and if that wasn’t a fucking test.

“I don’t remember his number,” Stan insisted, “They’re hard to remember. I get them mixed up,”

She seemed to drop it, after whatever guilt she was looking for in Stan’s eyes came up empty, “Aw, it’s alright, 51186,” She even ruffled his hair. The bitch, “Let’s go, clothes off,”

The showers were harder than Stan wanted to admit since in the grand scheme of fresh hell it should’ve been a minor thing. Guides weren’t trusted with anything that could lead to _irrational_ behavior including razors, water, or anything considered poisonous.

So instead of being allowed to disrobe and bathe in privacy, they were instead blasted with hoses against a tile wall. They were given just enough shampoo directly onto their scalps to clean themselves, allowed to scrub themselves, and then sprayed down again.

Stan loved baths. They were a seldom cathartic allowance he’d let himself enjoy. He’d said as much to Eddie after the first shower, still shaking from humiliation. Eddie had said they’d get baths when they had a session, more assured sanitation and attempted relaxation to put the guides at ease. Eddie half mimed and Stan half guessed until Eddie had been able to explain that he thought they put drugs in the water. Calm them down enough to be open to a bond.

The cold water struck Stan’s exposed back, making him jolt as he kept his hands flat to the tiled wall. He bit his lip, squeezing his eyes shut until the spray stopped and the chill settled into his skin. Rory approached with the towel, letting him dry himself. She wouldn’t shave his face today, not enough stubble to be noticable. But tomorrow he’d probably have to.

He hoped she’d knick him, just enough to be suspected of trying to kill him. Have her vanish. The thought used to disturb him. But then she’d laugh at his expression of and shaking shoulders and he’d just wish he could kill her himself.

 

\-----

 

As it turned out, the bath _was_ worse. A foggy haze settled against Stan’s eyelids, having nothing to do with the steam in the room. Or maybe that’s where the drugs were. Stan tried to hold his breath.

“Stop that.” Rory whipped him sharply with the rag.

He exhaled.

 

\-----

 

Despite Eddie’s warning, not being put under by Robert was nearly as disturbing as just passing out. Hazy consciousness didn’t suit the industrial walls enclosed around faux comfort. He felt like a school boy, pressed shirt and slacks - no belt, of course - and soft slip on shoes. Robert smiled when he’d come in, delighted at the attempted pomade through Stan’s curls. Rory had ripped a comb through his curls until Stan was sure his scabs would reopen. A few did.

“Well,” Robert sighed, “Don’t you clean up nice?”

“Thanks,” Stan mumbled, unsure of what else to say, not wanting to let a silence linger.

With Robert’s blessing, Stan was shuffled away to an elevator. It was down a few seemingly endless halls and no lack of locked doors. Rory guided him because of course she did. Stan didn’t know if her position was its own form of torture, psychologically breaking him with a constant spector lurking to shuffle him blindly through halls.

The elevator was a glass tube, seamlessly sliding down, down, down until Stan found himself in a new setting. The color palette didn’t change much, but the prison hospital faded away to what felt like a comfortable lounge. Plush leather sofas and armchairs were scattered about with potted plants dangling from the ceiling. A receptionist with a sleek dress and even sleeker bun sat at a circular desk, typing away as Rory pushed Stan back into motion.

The room was on the other side of a glass wall, soundproofed as Stan was lead around a corner. The glass wall gave way to granite slabs, aesthetically arranged to seem effortlessly chic. The opposite wall held ten doors, innocuous and unlabelled. Rory opened the seventh door, and held it open for Stan to follow.

It was spartan compared to the lobby and hallway. Two chairs with a single table between them. It felt more like an interrogation room than… well, Stan supposed that’s sort of what it was.

“Now,” Rory chirped, startling Stan, “You’ve got…” She flicked across her watch, “Fourteen Sentinels to meet with today. We start with top priority, more severe cases, then we get into the up and coming in the list. You’ll sit - here,” She pushed Stan into the chair facing away from the door, “And keep your palm up on the table. They’ll come in, grab your hand, and we see if it works out. If there’s a _spark_ then we go from there. Sound good?”

No. “Sure.”

“Great, I’ll have them bring the first one in.”

Rory ruffled his hair and left the room. The door swished shut lightly behind her.

The first one to come in was a man. Probably in his late forties. Severe part along his black hair and suit pressed to near concern. Stan’s hand tried to twitch away, but his grip was harsh around his wrist.

Stan felt nothing. Apparently neither did the man. He left with a snort a moment later.

The next was a woman, gorgeous in every right, but aging. She looked smart, her grip more practiced and steady. She waited a little longer than the last, only letting go with a final squeeze and, “Shame.”

They began to blur together. The process wasn’t invasive so much as simply uncomfortable. Sentinel and guide compatibility worked more like a blood type than anything else. Even with Ben, someone Stan had trusted and bonded with, there wasn’t any connection unless Stan pressed. But Ben had been worth it. These people were simply after a gain.

It was hard to imagine Ben here at all. He had to have sat here before, maybe in this room, gripping Eddie’s hand. Stan imagined he’d have been kind about it. Cautious, excited but ashamed that Eddie had matched to him. Eddie was _suitable for release_ yet, so Ben would get to see him more and more, hoping he’d be able to get him out. That he’d move up the list enough to help Eddie run from this hell -

“Hey,” A voice growled. Stan snapped back to himself, head floating somewhere between his hair and the ceiling, still unable to quite hone in on the angry man across from him. He yanked Stan’s hand across the table, bringing it to his own chest, “Focus you little shit,”

“I -”

“ _Shut up_ , guides don’t speak unless spoken to,” Stan didn’t think he’d appreciate noting that he had, in fact, been spoken to, “It’s not listening!” The man called out.

An intercom beeped beside them, “Our vitals show the guide is present and responsive.”

“I’ve been doing this shit for months,” The man hissed, “Months! I’ve helped you track down dozens of these little shits -”

“- Sir, please lower your voice -”

“- You don’t get to tell me what to do! Do you know who I am?”

The door opened in lieu of the intercom. Two guards came in, and grabbed the man. The grip on Stan’s hand tightened as they hauled him out of the chair. One guard took Stan, pulling him away and against a wall. The other held the yelling man in a headlock. A few moment later the man collapsed.

Rory came stepping in as the man was dragged away. Her hand found Stan’s shoulder, giving it what was probably supposed to be a comforting squeeze, “Back down the list, I’m afraid,” She sighed, “Such a shame.”

“Down the list?” Stan asked, “Not off of it?”

Rory look confused as she stared at him, “Well he’s a Sentinel. A senator at that. We can’t just abandon him. That would be inhumane.”

Stan nearly bit through his tongue.

“Only a few more, promise, we’ll find you some luck yet,”

It was the twelfth one where Stan felt a tremble up his arm. A tug in his chest, however involuntary. He’d been closing his eyes, not wanting to provoke or engage, just waiting it out. But when a small hand found his own he came face to face with a girl. With blue hair. Stan blinked.

She was short, possibly shorter than Beverly if her stature in the chair was any indication. Her - god, it really was blue - _blue_ hair was pulled into two small buns, showing shaved sides along her scalp. She wore a dress, but her entire ensemble screaming young and unprofessional. She smiled at him, politely enough, but held a tight sense of nerves that Stan reflected.

The table between them lit up, displaying a monitor along its surface containing Stan’s age, height, blood type, and so on. Now things were feeling invasive.

“Wow,” She hummed, “You’re pretty short,”

“You’re the size of a child,” Stan muttered before all the blood left his face. What the fuck, Stan?

But the girl laughed. Delighted and high as her eyes crinkled. She extended her free hand in greeting.

“I’m Noelle,”

Stan took her hand, but didn’t respond. There was no doubt Rory was watching. But their free hands were the one that bore a brand across freshly peeling skin. Noelle noticed it, brow furrowing, and Stan hid it in his lap.

“So,” Noelle began, but stopped short. It didn’t seem she had any idea what to do either.

The intercom rang through the room before either could try and guess, “The guide will now initiate contact and attempt to ease you, Noelle. Please press the button switch we gave you if you are uncomfortable. It is now active.”

Noelle fiddled with a small disk in her hand, a single button along one flat side.

“Three guesses what’ll happen?” She joked, eyes flitting around the room.

“It’s a taser,” Stan said, voice flat and small, “You’ll send a current through the collar.”

“Shit,” Noelle dropped the disk to the table, “I mean, unless you’re into it,”

She was alarmingly similar to Richie, misplaced jokes and all. Richie would say something even stupider, but hug Stan or squeeze his face until Stan laughed anyway. If Richie could just sit across from him…

“I’m guessing it’s not just you who isn’t feeling this?” Noelle whispered, leaning across the table, “I mean, I was excited - but, you don’t seem -”

“We’re prisoners here,” Stan chanced, voice barely a whisper.

Noelle blinked. Eyes widening as she processed that. The intercom crackled the same instructions with more force.

“But, I mean, you want to be here, right?” The words fell stilted, unconvincing.

“Do I look like I want to be here? They kidnapped me,” Stan rushed, timing his words to the intercom’s repeated orders, “They’re killing us to be slaves here. You have to help me,” Noelle was no longer responding. Instead she stared, disbelief that was setting Stan’s teeth on edge, “Find Richie Tozier. He’ll tell you, please, I -”

The door swung open, a current bolted through him. Noelle hopped back, shock drawn across her face.

Rory came in, standing between Noelle and Stan, “I’m sorry about that. This one is still in recooperation. Finding them as rogues always makes it more difficult. We’d be happy to reschedule your session for when they’re more acclimated.”

“Yeah, sure,” Noelle mumbled, “Seemed nice enough.”

“Nice isn’t a key factor in bonding,” Rory laughed, “They’re not your partner, just your helper. And we at the Center are here to make sure you get the best experience!”

She walked Noelle out, returning a minute later with a much sterner expression on her face. Stan hobbled to keep her pace as they entered the hall once more. The second door was ajar. Eddie's twitching form was fetal on the ground. A Sentinel shaking, gasping for fresh air as they clawed their throat.

“I’m going to have to tell Robert you were bad, 51186.”

Stan didn’t respond. She shocked him once more.

 

\-----

 

Patrick, or 16120, shouldn’t be able to intimidate Stan - let alone scare him. Stan had been electrocuted twice today alone. The other boy, despite his leering height, was locked in the same room in the same gray clothes with the same bare feet. Granted, being in a room with him in the dark was not somewhere Stan every wanted to be, but he was _there_. He was locked up just the same. A prisoner in every right.

Patrick wasn’t _scary_. But he was horrible.

“Let me see your arm,” He called, voice floating between their cots. His eyes gleamed, wide open whites staring across at him as Stan’s eyes had slowly adjusted to the blackness.

It was a recurring one sided conversation between them. Patrick, for all his sociopathic tendencies, followed rules. There was a weird balance in him of being as cruel as possible but never being caught doing it. He could have his fun, and didn’t seem scared at all of his circumstances, just as long as he listened to the guidelines.

Sometimes Stan wondered if Patrick even understood what was happening to them both.

“No,” Stan mumbled, eyes trained back at him. Stan had wanted to roll over, not acknowledge how the other haunted the room. They weren’t allowed to get out of their beds, so Patrick - by his own logic - wouldn’t ever approach Stan. But putting his back to Patrick seemed like it would lead to more traumatic results. So he kept his eyes locked, staring Patrick down even as the night dragged on. Better to anticipate his next move, be ready for any sudden changes in the tension.

Patrick seemed amused enough with it all, occasionally jerking his head or arm to watch the way Stan twitched - unwilling to tip the scales, rather letting the anticipation hang between them.

“Aw, c’mon,” Patrick smiled, a raspy laugh puffing from his lips, “They cooked you, right? Roasted up,” He twitched again, Stan’s jaw locked, “Lemme _see_ ,”

It had been going on for… well Stan didn’t know how long. Exhaustion scratched at the corners of his eyes, heavy lids falling before he forced them to rise with his dipping head. He didn’t want to fall asleep first. Patrick was sated for now, but if Stan wasn’t awake to jump with nerves who knew what he’d do to amuse himself. He didn’t look tired at all and the room allotted no sense of passing time to help Stan. There wasn’t even a window. Stan figured they should’ve gotten one. Then again, he looked back to Patrick, maybe not.

Stan licked his chapped lips, almost too tired to be disturbed by how Patrick followed the movement. Almost. His head dipped again, “Jus…” He yawned, jaw clicking, “Go to sleep,”

“Show me your arm,”

“For god’s s-” He huffed, “Patrick, _c’mon_ -”

The air seemed to crack between them. Stan alarmingly awake as Patrick swung upright, nearly no noise from the bed as his spine snapped straight. Stan’s arm extended between them, a desperate placation, but it was too late now.

“What’d you call me?” He drawled.

“Nothing,” Stan whispered furiously, sitting upright himself as Patrick’s feet found the floor. Bare soles slapping against smooth tile, “I’m tired, we both are, I didn’t - _stop_ ,”

The words didn’t stagger him, even when Stan pressed intention - command - into them, just as they hadn’t before. Stan wasn’t locked down tonight, a small mercy as he dragged his back flush to the wall. There was nowhere else to go. Maybe he could run for the door, slam himself against it. The guards or nurses had to be alerted when the shock went off, right? He -

Patrick’s knee dropped into the mattress, bouncing Stan as much as his own jolt. A hand smacked into the wall beside his head, stray curls caught beneath Patrick’s palm. Stan stared back at him. The entire thing felt remarkably similar to when Bill had stared down a neighborhood dog when they were seven. He’d been bit, blood sleucing down his arm as Stan cried and yelled for help. Patrick smiled. His teeth menacing beneath cracked lips.

Stan didn’t look away. Better to be bit than roll over.

Patrick wasn’t scary.

Stan wouldn’t let him be.

“Have a good chat with Robert?” He laughed, “Ol’ Bob, that sad sack of shit,”

A few choice words came to mind with Robert, but sad wasn’t one of them. Stan shifted, curls tugging as they dragged against the wall, “What does that mean?”

Patricks brows rose, eyes squinting at Stan’s apparent idiocy. But he looked interested, invested in the conversation enough to lower Stan’s panic just enough.

“He buys into this. Thinks he’s special,”

“I mean that living room set was pretty nice,”

Patrick laughed, a rasp that scraped between them, “It’s all a display. False power. We have the real power,” Fingers drummed the plaster beside Stan’s ear, “We can do what needs to be done.”

“You don’t think he’s killed people too?”

Stan expected the spark in Patrick’s eye; but it didn’t make it any less horrible. There was no hiding from those dead eyes. No reason to bother denying what he knew. The lying just upset him - and Patrick was dangerous enough happy.

“Maybe,” He hummed, dipping closer like they were having a sleepover. Hiding from their parents. God, “Maybe… but if he did he did it cause they said to. He built power on the _inside_. He wasn’t a rogue. It’s all gilded with him. None of it’s real,”

Stan thought Eddie on the floor, “It seemed real enough,”

“Paper mache,” Patrick quipped, “It’ll all cave in soon,”

“What does _that_ mean?” Stan hissed, “He nearly killed Eddie -”

“Oh, Eddie!” He barked, a fiery delight in his eyes. Hands found his face, fingertips pressed along Stan’s temples and cheekbones. Stan’s eyes flicked to the door - hoping and dreading a horrible surge of electricity through both of them that could save him, “God, you really made the rounds, huh? Show and tell with - well no _telling_ I guess. Eddie doesn’t have much to say lately,”

“What happened to him?” Stan tried.

“He’s like a little rabbit, right?” Patrick snickered, nails biting against the thin skin around Stan’s eyes, “Caught in a snare. Can’t call for help,” He laughed at his own joke.

Stan jerked under him, trying to dislodge the other man, but Patrick was remarkably heavy.

“Did you know,” Patrick continued, ignoring or unaware of Stan’s struggles, “That if you squeeze him he can’t cry out anymore? It was annoying - how high his voice was… too loud. Too high. It was almost a squeak. He’d cut himself off too fast. Wouldn’t let me savor it. Now it’s just wheezing. Wheezy Eddie,” His eyes came closer to Stan, “How hard do you think I’d have to break him to get that squeak back?”

“Shut up,” Stan spit, tears welling from the sting against his skin, “Shut the fuck up you piece of shit -”

“- That’s it,” Patrick laughed, voice just as easy as ever, “Get mad. Do something about it.”

“Shut _up -”_

“Gotta try harder,” Patrick laughed, eyelids spasming as Stan tried to ease him. Both were panting, desperate gasps from Stan mixing with Patrick’s amused huffs.

“S-Shut -” The horrible screeching began in his skull once more.

“Kill me. Do it,” The grip became suffocating, but Patrick’s face hardly changed, only his eyes showing the insanity, “How hard to I have to _squeeze_ -”

“Fuck _off_!” Stan yelled and slammed his head forward into Patrick. A crack shifted against his forehead. Patrick stumbled off of him, crumbling to a heap on the floor. Stan watched him cup his face, blood seeping between fingers.

Patrick looked up at him. Eyes staring into Stan’s own. Hands left fragmented cartilage to reveal a blood soaked smile. Stan’s spine locked as Patrick began to laugh - a wet chuckle, thick as blood ran down into his mouth.

“You’re just askin’ for trouble,” Patrick said.

“Fuck off,” Stan spit, back still flush to the wall, but no longer crouching away, “I’m not afraid of you.”

“That’s fair,” Patrick hummed, fingers drumming splatters along his upper lip, “I’m not the scariest thing here,”

Thing. Not person.

“Can you stop being cryptic for three seconds?”

“Why ruin the surprise? Eddie’s face was so funny when he woke up -”

The door slid open. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or drained adrenaline; but Stan was unconscious before he registered the voltage. Small mercies.

 

\-----

 

Stan woke up in Robert’s room. A polo was buttoned up around his neck, fabric catching in the links of the collar. His face was free of stubble, hair slightly damp. Stan couldn’t quite decide which bothered him more - so he opted to stare at a pulled edge of velvet lining until something happened. There was no running from the room, best not to make it worse than whatever it was going to be.

The room was dim, only antique bulbs casting a stained glass collage of colors across him. It reminded Stan of The Falcon. The projection room with it’s soft light and dark edges. Of the complete silence, dust floating around him as he was the only thing to shift the air.

But he’d had an out then. A hatch with stairs and a door to Beverly, Mike, Richie, occasionally Ben. God he missed them. He missed them so bad his bones ached, hollowed of their marrow as he sat a freshly washed husk on an armchair.

After awhile he began to count in his head. Softly muttering “one, two, three,” as he tapped his knee, but the timing seemed off. The room felt stale, unfiltered, lifeless. Each tap seemed skewed, a broken metronome. He’d never reach thirty before feeling like he had to start over, like it wasn’t correct.

Beverly wouldn’t stand for this shit. She’d destroy the room, rip out a spring or snap a plank from the chair into a jagged point. She’d fight.

“Eight, nine… one, two,”

Stan imagined telling her about Patrick. About how he kept touching and prodding him until Stan snapped and presumably snapped his nose. Beverly would be proud of him. Would’ve said he should’ve gone for an arm while he was at it. Or at least a hand.

“Twelve, thirteen, fourteen,”

But Stan wasn’t brave like her. He hoped she doesn’t kick Richie’s ass when she finds out what happened. Whatever _did_ happen.

RAT

Eddie’s scrawled letters imprinted against his eyelids. Pen lined accusations each time he blinked.

“Nineteen, twenty,” SENTINEL, “Twenty one, tw-” RAT

“... one, two,”

Richie wouldn’t do that. Stan knew Richie wouldn’t do that.

Right?

His unending cycle of numerical inconsistency was finally ended by a deep shift in the air behind him. Light poured into the room, coating every scratch and imperfection in the velvet chairs with soft white light. All the scratches were on the arm rests. Stan wondered how many were involuntary.

It could well be chalked up to cowardice, but Stan chose to think of martyrdom as he refused to turn to the footsteps echoed behind him. Two sets. One long, spaced, with heavy purposeful steps. The other light, faster, and off tempo. A limp, maybe. Or someone being dragged.

Robert wasn’t a surprise to see, more of an unpleasant expectation. But Eddie staggering behind him set Stan on edge. For himself or Eddie’s sake, he wasn’t sure.

“Stanny boy,” Robert greeted, dropping into the opposite chair, Eddie hovering beside him, “I heard you caused a tussle last night -”

“- I didn -”

“- Not to mention the... _disturbance_ you made in front of a poor Sentinel not hours before. And _right after_ I told you the rules,” There was an edge to his words, a cracked knife dragging along Stan’s throat as Robert stared, “I stressed the need for rehabilitation in rogues and you just went on and _proved_ my _point,_ ” He laughed, high in both register and volume, “I can’t tell if that makes you a troublemaker or a poster child,”

Stan wanted to look to Eddie, to get some idea of what was going to happen. But the paralysis wasn’t anything he was keen to try out again with Robert already looking so angry… or delighted; his expression alarmingly difficult to read.

“Now, despite your attitude and circumstances, the higher ups wanted to get you out for some sessions, compatibility and all that. But you did nothing but spread lies, break rules, the list goes _on,_ ” Robert’s hand closed around Eddie’s wrist, tugging him closer, "And _on_ ,"

“What,” Stan swallowed, not letting his eyes meet Eddie’s growing ones, “What do you need me to do?”

“What a sport!” Robert cried, shaking Eddie’s arm. Stan could practically feel the bruise forming from it.

Robert leaned forward, grip still tight on Eddie. His entire aura changing into something softer, more threatening, “See the thing is, buddy, is that you’re on _very_ thin ice. You’ve killed a Sentinel, broken a number of your very limited rules, and brutally attacked your roommate. Patrick already wasn’t a looker, and you’ve made him downright tragic with that headbutt of yours,” Eddie almost looked proud, “So you’ve become a candidate. The higher ups want you off the list, but personally, I am all about getting you in line. You’re powerful, Stanley. And the thing about power is that, well, you’re on the wrong side of the fence. You don’t listen very well. And, I gotta tell ya, I’m not buying that little school boy teary eyed _bullshit._ ” The last word was spoken near a growl, not even needing to put a command behind it to make Stan freeze.

“So I need to see you not listen; but obey, buddy. Because we both know you’re too smart for blind allegiance. Your heart isn’t in it. So, Eddie here,” He tugged him to stand between them, “Has pushed a few too many buttons. Just like you. And frankly, I’m not seeing a lot of potential here anymore. See, Eds thinks that his cute lil’ face can get him by scot free when he tries to seize a Sentinel’s lungs. When he thinks his little pen is allowed to write tattoos across skin, skirt around the rules,” Eddie looked livid, unable to defend himself.

"He didn't, I told Rory -"

"If it transferred to your skin, wouldn't it be backwards?" Robert teased, voice light as he crushed Eddie's wrist in his hand, “Y'know, Eddie was a candidate too. Is, technically, still. Little malfunction on this one. Work in progress.”

“I don’t understand -” Stan tried.

“- Because, once again, you aren’t _listening_. Eddie didn’t respond to treatment well enough. Three strikes and you’re out,” Robert turned Eddie to face Stan fully, “Now. Do me a favor...”

_kill eddie , stanley ._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm just gonna apologize now. 
> 
> lemme know what you think and what you think is gonna happen!

**Author's Note:**

> let me know if it sucked.
> 
> tumblr: birdboyinthedeadlights


End file.
